Shadows of the Soul
by Maria Rene
Summary: Marshall investigates an odd noise on his porch at night. What he discovers is exactly what he expected, and yet he never saw it coming. Spoilers through Fish or Cut Betta, AU after that. WARNING: Non-descriptive references to child abuse including rape.
1. The Noise in the Night

Disclaimer: Of course they're not mine, which is good because I'd have made them do stuff like this, and ruined the whole show, by halfway through season one.

Summary: Marshall investigates an odd noise on his porch at night. What he discovers is exactly what he expected, and yet, he never saw it coming. Spoilers up to Fish or Cut Betta, but we'll likely go AU real fast. WARNING: Non-descriptive references to child abuse including rape.

We're flying without a beta-reader, so all errors are mine. I realize that most writers spell Marshall's nickname for Mary as "Mare" but I can't do that, because I feel like I'm referring to a horse. So it's "Mer" in this tale. I have some idea of where I'm going with this, but not a whole ton, so I welcome any requests or suggestions you may have. And, for added fun, this is my first romance. Ever. I welcome feedback on how well I do THAT, since I have an arranged marriage (archaic, I know, but it works fine for me) and thus, my entire education on dating, I got from television.

**PLEASE NOTE:** I'm not going to be real explicit in the discussion of child sexual abuse in this work, but it will be mentioned, and referenced, and the related issues will be mentioned, probably frequently. I'm marking it T, but if you think it ought to be bumped up a notch, or if you think I need to add anything to my warning, please let me know. I'm not always real good at gauging these things. I also make reference to the fact that children are more likely to be abused by their mother's live-in boyfriend than by their own biologically-related family members. I'm not trying to stereotype, and I've met a lot of guys who are really awesome with the kids, whether or not they're from a previous relationship. But I know that my friends who work in law enforcement are well aware of the high-risk nature of such a living arrangement, and I figure Mary and Marshall aren't going to be an exception to that... especially Mary, with her cynical perspective.

* * *

The clock was quickly closing in on eleven when he paused, beer bottle in midair, slowly turning his head to listen more carefully, lanky fingers blindly grasping the remote and lowering the television volume with silent precision. Among the patter of moderately heavy rain, among the gunfire in his Korean War documentary, he thought he heard something else, something like scuffling, as if the neighbor's obnoxious cats were fighting on his porch again. On a clear night, he might not have given the noise a second thought, but in the rain, well... for one thing, he didn't think the cats were even willing to go out in the rain, and for another, if they were fighting loud enough to be heard over the rain and the Korean War both, there would be yowling. So, he waited warily, mentally taking inventory of the weapons, and makeshift weapons, within easy access. A moment later, he heard it again, the definite sound of something, or someone, moving about at his front door. He frowned in confusion as the beer found its way to the end table. It sounded like whoever was out there, was having some sort of fight with the low wall separating his little garden from the rest of the front yard.

His hand snaked out and wrapped itself around his gun as he moved quietly, coming up on the front door from as much of a sideways angle as he could manage in the respectably modest home. When he bought the place, he'd liked the privacy afforded by the small foyer, not allowing visitors to see more than a few feet into the house from the doorway, but sometimes he wished for just a little more elbow room. Carefully, he pinched one slat of the blinds covering the narrow window next to the door, lifting it just enough to peer through the slit. A shadow played on the wall, revealing its owner pacing back and forth in the garden just beyond the porch, kicking periodically at something, probably the aforementioned low wall. In the space of a heartbeat, he recognized the shadow. Playing it safe, though, he kept the gun in one hand, pointed at the floor, double-checking that the safety was, in fact, still on. He couldn't picture any reason for his visitor to be pacing, or beating the crap out of his house. He eased the deadbolt to its unlocked position, and swung the door open, knowing its squeak would give away his position, but unwilling to give up the only shield he had, until he had assessed the situation. Fortunately for Marshall, the situation pretty much assessed itself as soon as the first creak of his front door echoed in the small vestibule of a porch. Mary froze in place momentarily before turning her head to meet his gaze. Caught, she turned to face him, and stepped under the porch roof, out of the rain. Only now did Marshall set down his gun on the side table by the door, next to the mail he'd been meaning to sort and deal with.

"Hi," he said, more a question than a greeting. She was already barreling towards the doorway, and he stepped back to allow her to enter. He continued to wait for her to say something, do something, as she stood on the tiled floor, looking half-drowned as the growing puddle at her feet began to creep toward the carpeted hallway. She obviously wasn't going to speak just yet. "Okay, how about you stay right here, and I'll get you a towel," he said, and she nodded. "... or twenty," he muttered, as he took three long strides to the linen closet in the hall. A towel for her body, one for the floor, and one for her hair. That ought to do, for now.

He took the stack of linens back to the foyer, where she still stood as he'd left her. Of all the weird things Mary had done over the years, this was definitely new, he mused, as he unfolded the first towel, and lay it gently over her hair, taking just a moment to dry some hair. She stood still and allowed him to open the next towel out and wrap it around her shoulders, moving only to pick her feet up as he bent over and pulled her sneakers off, then nudged her now-bare feet to stand on the third towel. As he stood back to his full height, fixing to ask her what was going on, he suddenly realized he'd seen something else out of place on the porch. Opening the door again, he reached out to grab an overnight bag that stood quietly beneath the doorbell. Definitely new, he thought as he brought the bag inside and set it gently in the carpeted hall, well away from the damp floor.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, trying a different approach, since "hi" had been an utter failure. Recognition flickered on her face, and she finally seemed to actually see him, instead of just meeting his gaze with a vacant stare of her own.

"Water, maybe," she answered. Well, she sounded like her usual strong self, at least.

"Sure you don't want a beer?" Marshall asked, as he turned towards the kitchen. Mary finally moved, following him. He turned his head just enough to see her shake hers.

"Not a good idea. I've already had enough to drink tonight." Marshall almost laughed at that. Most people wouldn't cut themselves off until they were at least slurring their words. Given her mother's problems, he wasn't surprised that she'd be careful to cut herself off after a drink or three, but it still struck him as incongruous with the driven, passionate woman he knew, who never stopped until the horse was not only dead and beaten, but dismembered too. He presented her with a glass of water, then grabbed his own beer and returned to stand in the kitchen to watch his still-soggy partner. He was getting tired of observing, but this was so completely outside the realm of normal that he wasn't yet sure how to proceed. He could sense that it wasn't the time for inane trivia, but he didn't have any other ideas, either.

"So what brings you to my humble abode?" Marshall asked after a moment's thought. Mary continued to sip her water, apparently having a staring contest at the sink just to his left. "Mary?" he prompted after what seemed like more than enough time for her to think up a convincing lie, if she had been planning to. She heaved a sigh.

"Tell anyone else about this, and I'll shoot you with your own gun," she spat. Anger, okay... he wasn't thrilled with anger, but at least it was something. Her gaze fell to the floor as she took another sip, and a deep breath. Anger and shame... the plot thickens. Still, he waited for her answer. "Nightmares," she finally muttered. Marshall blinked. Nightmares? Seriously? All their years together, all she'd been put through, and she thought he didn't already assume she had nightmares at times? His mind immediately launched into the variety of reasons that nightmares were normal, but she put a hand up before he could form a word.

"Is there any chance I could run a shower, and put on some dry clothes, before you subject me to a lecture on the causes of nightmares?" she asked, as she set her glass down on the counter she'd been leaning against. Marshall put up a hand, and half-bowed, half-nodded his acceptance of her request. Uncharacteristically quiet, she nearly sprinted for the bathroom, grabbing her bag on the way. Marshall returned to his couch, watching whatever show had come on in the few minutes that he'd been gone, sipping more slowly at his beer. He'd been thinking of grabbing another one before heading to bed, but now he was glad he hadn't followed through on that. Whatever was going on in his partner's head had to be pretty serious for her to go ten whole minutes without flinging some sort of insult.

He turned the TV volume lower still when he heard the shower turn off. A few minutes later, Mary emerged from the hall, folding herself into the opposite corner of the couch. Marshall made full use of the opportunity to study her. She was beautiful with her damp hair pulled into a ponytail, clad in soft pink pajamas and furry blue slipper socks. Then again, she'd been beautiful out in the rain, staring vacantly towards him. And as a shadow on the wall, fighting demons only she could see or feel. He'd once told a witness that the art of catching somebody you want is to run away, and make the target of your affections chase you instead. Why was it, he wondered as he stretched his legs out to invade her space, that he could barely follow his own good advice.

"Nightmares," Marshall finally said aloud, after he'd had about all the silence he could take from her. She nodded once in reply. Embarrassment joined the anger and shame that continued to radiate from somewhere within her being. "Anything else to go with that, maybe what they're about..?" he pressed. That got a huge sigh out of her, as if she'd been holding her breath for half the night.

"Being kidnapped, being killed, nearly killed, waking up right as I'm being killed, watching my family get killed, dying in a bomb blast, constantly running away from predators, but never getting any further away..." Mary's voice hitched up on the last word, and she fell silent. He knew from experience that it meant she was near some sort of change, tears, some kind of weird flashback... it always seemed to vary a little bit, but it always meant her defensive wall had broken in some place, and was teetering on the verge of collapse. He loved and hated these moments, when he could slip through her defenses and nurture her heart, but then she expected him to help rebuild the wall. Expected him to sit quietly by while she did the one thing he hated, more than anything else she ever did. Her undying strength and determination amazed him. He wished he could show her that letting some people get near her, wouldn't weaken the outer shell that protected her and her witnesses. He waited a moment before speaking.

"Well, those kinds of dreams aren't uncommon, after the kinds of things you've been through," he said quietly. Memories came into his own mind unbidden, as he sifted through the trauma that could cause such a horrible nightmare, to leave her beating up his garden wall in the rain. Talking her through saving his own life after he'd been shot. Holding her back while his witness blew up a bridge, taking himself with. Finding her in a basement, more jumpy than an injured badger, gun clasped in hands bound together by heavy chain. She had endured far too much in her life. And yet, there she sat, across from him, shaking her head.

"I've had these dreams all my life, Marshall, for as long as I can remember." Marshall stared at his partner, completely shocked by this news. Sure, in the many long drives they'd made, he'd noticed that she sometimes whimpered and frowned in her sleep, as he observed uncomfortably until she would startle awake at the slightest sound. But she'd had some tough experiences in their earliest cases. It wasn't particularly strange. But tormented by such horrifying nightmares for all her life? The only cause that remotely fit his friend was your average PTSD. Immediately his mind began to list all the things that could happen to a young child to cause such vivid, violent, frequent nightmares. Natural disaster... probably not. Witnessing a violent crime, such as murder... well, maybe, but it wasn't likely. Child neglect, well that was a given, but she seemed to somehow rebound and even thrive as a result of that situation. Abandonment by her father. But the two most common, child abuse and rape, were absent from her past, he tho-- oh. Oh God. Suddenly Marshall regretted even having the one beer. It felt like it had grown teeth and eaten through his stomach as realization hit. Had his Mary been subjected to far more horror than she'd ever shared with anyone? Was he supposed to ask these things? She'd always volunteered information in the past, or allowed her pain to leak out to the point that he didn't need to be told, to understand. Peering into her eyes, watching the way fear preyed upon the twinkle of wry sarcasm he usually found there, before it moved on to stalk determination, strength, and her undying trust in her partner, he came to two realizations. He wasn't asking questions because he felt certain he didn't want to know the answers. But Mary needed him to to ask, to know, and to stand guard by the collapsed fortress wall that tonight, failed to protect her heart. Setting the now-warm beer down, Marshall pulled his feet back from his partner just a little bit, giving her just a little space.

"I'm no psychologist, but usually chronic nightmares are related to PTSD." He let the statement hang in the air between them. Mary nodded. "Mary..." he began, then stopped, suddenly uncertain. He watched her face develop into a sort of cringe that most people would take for a glare, but he recognized it as the deep pain that had been known to push her to tears on rare occasion. She knew where he was going, and her choice to sit there and wait for it, was all the permission she would give... all the permission he needed.

"Mer, what happened when you were young, to cause this?" Marshall was surprised he managed to pull off an even tone of voice when he felt so completely unsure of everything. He was even more surprised by the tears that slid down his partner's cheeks, as if the dam had burst all at once. Usually it took a little more than an open-ended question to push her to that point.

Ever the gentle giant to her exotic animal routine, Marshall rose slightly off the couch, enough to shift himself closer to the middle as he stretched one hand out towards her, not sure she wanted his comfort, but ready to give it just the same. To his relief, she responded almost instantly, untangling her limbs from one another and launching herself into his offered embrace. Marshall made full use of strength to slide back to his place at the corner of the sofa, dragging his friend along with, until the two were sitting with their legs sprawled across the entire couch, him with his back resting against the arm of the sofa, her turned sideways with her face buried somewhere in the space between his chest and the back of the sofa, to his right. He rubbed her arm gently with one hand, as the other found its way to the mass of cold, damp hair that was leaving wet spots against his shirt. They sat quietly for several minutes until Mary's cries quieted to occasional moans. Marshall was entirely sure he didn't want to say anything more, but there really wasn't another option on the table.

"Mary..?" he ventured timidly, hoping she would take the reins. She took a couple deep breaths, pressing herself more fully into his protective embrace in the process.

"They started when I was... I don't know, eight or so." Marshall struggled, under the stress, to work the basic math.

"Maybe a year or so after your father left." She nodded. "What happened after your dad left?" He knew about her mother's drinking, about the young girl stuck with the task of taking care of the family that should have been tending her needs, but he realized suddenly, with a deep sense of foreboding, that while he knew the key players in his partner's ongoing family drama, he had no idea what _happened_. Mary, for her part, shrugged in answer to the question.

"Mom did like so many single mothers do, when they have no education and no real job opportunities. She started dating a guy she'd met at a bar, and her boyfriend moved in with us after a few weeks. Once that relationship fizzled, maybe six or eight months later. He left one day, screaming about her being an alcoholic, because, you know, he didn't notice that when he picked her up at a bar. So she sulked for a day or two, then picked up the pieces, and went to AA. And when the eviction notice came, because she wasn't paying rent, we moved in with that boyfriend. And so it goes, until one day, the mother's kids are old enough to work part-time and contribute, and then next thing you know, she moves in and I'm still stuck picking up the tab."

"Mary..." She jerked her head up when she heard the way Marshall said her name. It reminded her of the tone he'd used when he'd been shot, and was trying – and utterly failing, by the way – to hide his pain. She hadn't wanted to actually tell him what started the nightmares, but when she looked up and saw him, eyes shut, the agony subtle but unmistakeable on his face... no, they had to quit beating around the bush. Otherwise he was going to start trying to be overprotective and treat her weird, and basically let it screw with his head until the last moment of recorded time. She just wasn't entirely sure he was ready to hear, just yet.

"Go ahead, Marshall," she replied. "Ask." The pain and exhaustion were evident in her own rough voice, she knew. But it was going to sit there like a bandage until somebody pulled themselves together and ripped it off. Marshall rewarded her nerve with a sigh of his own, then another. She watched as his mouth moved slightly, practicing words that were so simple, and yet so painfully hard to say aloud, before his low, rough, worry-laced voice broke the silence.

"Oh, Mary... what did your mom's boyfriend do to you?"

* * *

Yeah, I know, it's an evil place to leave you hanging. Not to worry, though, the next couple chapters are coming along nicely. They're just not quite ready for prime time, yet! This is my first IPS work, so I welcome advice on making them more in-character (something I often struggle with), and all that good stuff. Thanks for reading!


	2. Two Elephants with One Stone

Disclaimer: They're still not mine, which is still good because I'd have made them do stuff like this, and ruined the whole show, by halfway through season one.

**WARNINGS:** This story contains non-descriptive references to child abuse, including rape. I'm purposely avoiding getting descriptive in the discussion of Mary's past, but it will be mentioned, and referenced, and the related issues will be mentioned, probably frequently. If you think the rating or the warning needs to be changed, please let me know. At this point, we also have a language warning, though it's still somewhat tame compared to the actual show.

We left off with Mary and Marshall camped out on his sofa, after she came over, paced in his yard in the rain, then confessed to having PTSD-style nightmares since she was about eight years old. She started crying, he dragged her into a nice cozy hug, and she shared the story of her newly-single mom's method of keeping the bills paid by bagging a boyfriend, or twenty. Marshall, being not only in law enforcement, but also being one smart cookie, knows that kids are about a zillion times more likely to be abused if mom has a live-in boyfriend, and he puts two and two together pretty quick. Then he and Mary decide they're going to shoot the proverbial elephant in the room, and she orders him to just ask what he wants to ask, and he's in the process of doing just that.

* * *

"Oh, Mary... what did your mom's boyfriend do to you?" She wasn't sure if it was Marshall's quiet, worry-laced tone that unnerved her, or the the heart-shattering pain she watched, doing laps in the unshed tears in his eyes, as he asked the question she both yearned and dreaded to hear. Either way, though, now it was she who seemed unable to force out the very words that she'd been so ready to share just a moment ago.

"Damn, this is harder than I thought," she grumbled, and Marshall smiled in spite of the situation. His eyes finally opened, and for the first time since she'd begun crying, the pair made eye contact.

"Mary, we both know already. I think I've suspected for a long time... first time I got a witness who... who'd been through it, after we became partners, I kind of pieced it together. I get that neither of us wants to say it, because that somehow makes it more real, but it's way too late for that. Just spit it out, already, and let's get this part over with."

"Yeah, I keep trying," she muttered, her frustration evident.

"Well, try pretending it's one of your witnesses, and tell me in the third person, just like you were reading it from the file. Or you could do it in sign language... though I guess you'd have to know sign language first. We could write it as a limerick." The pair sat quietly for just a second as Marshall realized how limericks, and the gutter, usually go hand in hand. "Maybe not a limerick," he said. Mary shook her head, agreeing with his assessment. "Would writing it be easier?" he asked, more seriously.

"I'd rather be able to say it. Feels like it's totally in control of me when I can't even say it. But... yeah, writing would be easier."

"Here," he said, twisting in his place to reach for the paper and pen he kept on the end table. "Take a minute to gather your thoughts, get the words just like you want them, and then we can read it together." Mary hesitantly reached for the offered items. "Do you want to move to the recliner, or shall I just close my eyes?"

"I need my space for this one," she said, after a little thought. Marshall didn't like that idea, but he loosened his grip anyway, and she moved to the recliner across the room, sitting sideways, facing away from him. He didn't like that, either, but he understood it. It's easier to tell these kinds of things when you can imagine that you're alone, talking to nobody. He watched as she went through several drafts, angrily crumpling the rejected pages and throwing them aside, before she put the pen down, studying the latest incarnation for several minutes. Marshall observed that it was getting on towards midnight, by this point. While he waited, he quietly picked up his phone and sent a text message to Stan, letting him know that they were dealing with some past issues, and both would be taking a personal day tomorrow. He prayed that it wouldn't come back to haunt him later, as he hit the send button.

Marshall continued to wait a few more agonizing minutes before Mary finally nodded her approval of her work, and got up out of the chair. She set the notepad down, face down, on the coffee table, and then sat down in the middle of the couch. Marshall sat forward, grabbing his partner with one hand and the notepad with the other, drawing both to him. He felt her tense up when she saw he had the paper, but he calmed her by placing it face-down against her body as he pulled her to sit with her back resting against his chest. She folded the page as she accepted the control he so willingly gave her. She treasured the great sacrifice he was making tonight, when all he wanted was to grill her for information, and then storm off on an ass-kicking mission.

"When you're ready, Mary... my idea was that we can read it together, but we can play this any way you want. Just tell me what you need." He sat quietly and listened to her shuddering breaths. It was so frustrating, knowing the end of the whole dramatic evening was just on the other side of the paper she clutched against her stomach, but he had forced himself to be patient with her every day, for a long time now. He could hold out just a little bit longer, for her sake.

Mary, for her part, was mulling the options. There was something to be said for just letting him read the paper for himself... getting to hear the soothing tone of his voice, the way it would change as he absorbed the meaning of each word. But she knew she needed to speak the words for herself. Hmm. She had an idea. She felt silly asking for it, but she supposed it wasn't much sillier than having come to her partner's house over a nightmare, and then having been caught beating the garden wall to death because she was too embarrassed to ring the doorbell. Yep, cool and collected was pretty much gone at this point. Might as well throw the rest of her caution to the wind as well.

"I need you to read it aloud first, because I don't think I can do this. But then I'm going to tell you anyway, because I've never told anybody before, and it'd be nice to have at least some practice before you haul my ass to the nearest therapist and make me tell a complete stranger how I feel about it. Marshall cringed slightly at her terse words, but he had long known this was how she expressed fear and nervousness, and that her willingness to direct it at him was a backward way of telling him she trusted him. Oh sure, she started out trying to use her tactics to push him away before he had the chance to abandon her, but in time it had morphed into something far weirder and more endearing.

"Okay," he replied. Read it aloud. So she wouldn't have to wonder how far along he was, or when he was finished. So she would hear the way his tone would shift from disbelief, to rage, and probably unbearable pain, as a particularly horrifying piece of his best friend's life unfolded before him. And yet, somehow, he knew that hearing Mary speak the words herself would easily rival the night of her shooting, as the hardest thing he'd ever had to live through. Marshall decided to finally put an end to the torment they'd put themselves through for the evening. He took the paper from her hands, though he didn't yet unfold it.

"Mary, before I do this, I want you to know that this knowledge may change the way I interact with you for a little while, as I process the news. I'm sorry if I make you feel overly coddled or anything, during the next few days. But I kind of saw this coming, so... I don't want you to worry that I'm going to look at you differently, or think any less of you. It's just a phase. We will get back to normal pretty quickly. The only thing that's really changing is that you're trusting me with another part of your life... there's one fewer elephant in the room now."

"Yeah, yeah, it's not my fault, it doesn't really change who I am, or how capable I am in life, and you'll always be my bestest girlfriend no matter what, I got it, Doofus, just read already," she shot back. It wasn't the snarky reply that surprised him, it was that she didn't interrupt his little speech in order to deliver it. And that she settled her weight more fully against him as she groused, reaching one hand up to rest it on the arm that wrapped around her. She was adorable when she was nervous. Marshall drew one last breath, unfolded the page, and began to read, deliberately slow.

"Chuckles wouldn't drink, but he bought Mom's alcohol. When she got drunk at night, he would come into my room and molest me. Sometimes he touched inappropriately, sometimes it was sort of appropriate but not coming from him. He waited till I was nine to..." Marshall paused for just a moment, gripping Mary a little tighter as angry tears began to slip down his cheeks. "... till I was nine... to rape me. At first I didn't tell because he said he'd leave Brandi alone. I knew he was lying, but she's my sister. I hoped it was true. Then I didn't tell because he and Mom split up when I was maybe thirteen. Then, it was because it was ancient history. Now, it's because you've never abandoned me, and you've..."

Marshall had been trying to read through the entire thing without skipping ahead, but as the next words came into blurry view around his tears, he had to stop for just a second, processing her words, her fears, and how different they were from the truth. "Oh, Mary..." he muttered, as he took a breath and continued reading. "... you've never abandoned me, and you've even said you love me, and I'm afraid of losing all that to one bastard more than two decades ago." He'd never been one to allow himself to cry around others, but with her, he made an exception, sharing what was on his mind in spite of the embarrassing way his voice broke up around his own sobs.

"Mer, you haven't lost me. I sort of guessed all of this before making the decision to never abandon you, before I even loved you. It's okay to be afraid, but you know somewhere in there, that this particular fear is irrational, right?" Her sobs began anew, and he set the paper down to hold onto her with both arms. After just a minute, he felt her nodding against his chest. Yes, she knew it was irrational. Good, this was good. It didn't make her fear any less real, but at least she knew that much. They sat together for some time, letting their cries of shared grief fill the room for a little while, as Marshall cradled his partner's body, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could somehow cradle and soothe her injured soul.

"Did you still want to tell me what happened?" he asked after they'd had some time to settle down. Mary shivered in apparent fright, but nodded. She began to push away from him, and his first thought was to hang on, to keep her from running away. "What, Mary... what do you need?"

"I need to see your eyes," she answered. "I don't want to get too far away, but I need to see." Marshall turned loose immediately, and she slipped a few inches away from his body, turning to sit on the couch properly, as it was intended, with her knees draped over his leg, feet dangling towards the floor. From this position he could reach out and hold her hand in his, and she could turn her shoulders to face him more fully.

"That better?" he asked, not entirely sure that she was comfortable.

"Well, my feet are going to fall asleep like this, so I guess I need to talk fast," she quipped, smiling in spite of herself. He nodded in agreement, remaining quiet so she could begin. "So... so Chuckles, they met at an AA meeting. He never drank, he was serious about that, but he always bought her booze. Encouraged her to drink, as if she needed encouragement, so she'd pass out and he could do whatever he wanted at night. Then he'd come in my room. He molested me most often, just inappropriate touching... sometimes things that wouldn't be really wrong, except it was him, and I knew he had ulterior motives, so it was just creepy. I never liked it.

"When I was nine, he said he'd waited for sex, so it wouldn't hurt. Except it wasn't sex, it was rape, and it hurt anyway, so I don't... I don't know. He said if I told, the police would take me, and then he'd start doing it to Brandi. I didn't think he was leaving her alone, but she looked at me like I was dumb the one time I asked if he was doing anything nasty to her. Probably because she was all of four or five years old, but I didn't think of that at the time, and he'd already destroyed me anyway... if keeping my mouth shut would keep her safe... well, you know." Mary had said she wanted to see his eyes, but she waited until this moment to look up into them. "Did you want me to go through all of what I wrote..?" she asked.

"I think you wrote all that because it's what you wanted to say aloud," Marshall replied. She took a couple deep breaths, then nodded, this time not looking away.

"So... so at first I didn't tell because I hoped it would keep my sister safe. Then it was because they broke up when I was about thirteen, and he'd stopped raping me maybe two or three months before they split for good. Probably had a new girlfriend who kept him busy, or whatever. And at thirteen, you know, two or three months... that was ancient history. I thought it wouldn't matter anyway. Then when I was about 21, 22 maybe, I realized how much it had affected me, but I didn't tell then because it really was ancient history. It didn't seem to be an important step to healing, and there sure as hell wasn't anybody around who I wanted to share the worst part of my life with. By the time I found somebody I trusted enough to maybe open up about it... I... this is hard." Marshall nodded in reply.

"Yes, but you wrote it because you want it out in the open, and I already know, so there's no risk. You might as well finish the job." She took another deep, cleansing breath.

"By the time I found somebody I trust enough to share it with... you still haven't abandoned me. You even said you love me, when you toasted my engagement, at work... my now-failed engagement. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of losing that. I'm afraid that if you find out, you'll realize I really was worthless, all along, and you'll ask for a transfer, or something. Even after you've made it clear that I'm being illogical, I'm still afraid."

"Why are you afraid?" Marshall asked, sensing that she was on the verge of something she was desperate to admit.

"What do you mean, why am I afraid, I just told you, I'm afraid you'll figure out I'm worthless."

"No, Mary... what are you really afraid of?" She sat back into the sofa cushions and blinked at her partner, giving him that look, the one that meant she thought he was being an idiot, for just a moment before she burst into tears again. "Because, it sounds to me like those two things mean a whole lot more to you than you've ever let on, and I see that you're afraid of losing something from me, but..."

"When you found out I was engaged," she began, cutting him off before he got too into his foray into her psychology. "That day, you seemed sad. As if you were losing me. And I want to know, before I take one more step down this path, if that was some kind of macho reaction to the idea of having to learn how to be partners with a married woman, or if there was something more."

Crap. Deer in headlights looked less frightened than he did, he knew. But, sweet Jesus... crap. Of all the places she could have gone, he really, truly never saw this one coming. And she'd managed to do it in such a way... there was no way to lie or talk his way out of this one. "I hesitate to answer, Mary," he began, "because I don't want to frighten you, or make you feel uncomfortable."

"Blah blah blah, Marshall, are you in love with me?" If the situation hadn't been so dead serious, he would have snickered at her sharp, sarcastic way. As it was, he could barely breathe, let alone speak. He left her hanging for a moment, taking in all the hope and fear in her eyes, before he simply nodded once. Immediately, Mary's eyes fell to the floor. His first thought was that he shouldn't have confessed, even when asked point-blank. He'd hurt her, she was uncomfortable, it wasn't the answer she... wait. Wasn't the answer she wanted? Since when did Mary ask a question without being reasonably sure she was willing to accept either potential answer? So why was she freaked out? Marshall steeled his nerves and reached out with both hands to capture hers.

"What do you need?" he asked simply.

"Whiskey," came her brutally honest reply. Marshall immediately let go of her hands, and began to get up from the couch. If the lady needed a drink, that was fine by him. Hell, he was pretty sure he needed half the bottle at this point. But before he could make a real move, she had turned to face him again, grabbing him by the arms. "Marshall, wait." He fell still and did as she asked. "Say it yourself, instead of nodding." Oh for the love of all that is holy... why was she torturing him like this? But... but it was Mary, so he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

"Yes, Mary, I am in love with you." Before he got the whole sentence out, she was back to crying, only this time she had flung herself against his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him in the process. Marshall frowned in confusion at this turn of events, just sitting still until his partner grabbed his hands and wrapped them around herself.

"That's what I'm afraid of losing," she whispered after a minute. "I'm so afraid of losing it that I was willing to marry somebody else, to make sure I never let myself experience it in the first place, so it wouldn't hurt to lose it later."

* * *

There, hopefully not so much a cliffhanger this time? I was never really fond of them till I saw the way they're used in BuJyo's powerful, phenomenal, awesome story, Don't Speak, which, if you enjoy this, you should go find and read. It's amazing, cliffhangers and all.

I didn't remember until after I wrote this that not only have I given the abuser the same name as Brandi's drug-dealer boyfriend, but I also used the same nickname that Mary called him by, while the pair were held captive. He's actually modeled after the live-in boyfriend who a certain relative brought home from AA, and who made full use of that opportunity to beat the kids up, and... and otherwise abuse the daughter, until I turned 18 and took custody of the children involved (no, no deep psychological reasons there, why my temperament might be so eerily similar to that of a certain fictitious U.S. Marshal...) I've always called the rat-bastard "Chuckles", because Charles, Charlie, and even Chuck all seemed too polite. Anyway, I thought about changing his name once I realized the connection, but it seemed fitting to me that she'd use the same somewhat-derogatory nickname for both dirtbags named Chuck, in her life.

Also, if you've managed to stay with me through all this babble, are my paragraphs too big for y'all? They look great on my computer, but they seemed kind of huge when I saw them on FFN with my margins set like I like them, and they looked like all crap when I saw them on my phone, so now I have paragraph-insecurity.


	3. Dropping the Other Shoe

Disclaimer: They're still not mine, which is still good because I'd have made them do stuff like this, and ruined the whole show, by halfway through season one.

**PLEASE NOTE:** This story contains non-descriptive references to child abuse, including rape. I'm purposely avoiding getting descriptive in the discussion of Mary's past, but it will be mentioned, and referenced, and the related issues will be mentioned, probably frequently. If you think the rating or the warning needs to be changed, please let me know.

To recap, Marshall and Mary have spent a good couple hours talking, and she's revealed that she has horrific nightmares because as a child, she was sexually abused by at least one of her mother's boyfriends. Then the conversation turned to the fact that Marshall is in love with her, and that she knew – and was afraid of losing that love. And that a lot of why she was willing to marry Raph was because she figured if she never let herself receive Marshall's romantic love, she never had to dread losing said love. She hasn't mentioned anything about how much easier it is, and how much less regret it produces, to make dumb relationship choices in the first place, for ease in sabotaging later, but I'm sure she'll get to that part. Hopefully.

* * *

"That's what I'm afraid of losing," she whispered, still firmly planted in his embrace. "I'm so afraid of losing it that I was willing to marry somebody else, to make sure I never let myself experience it in the first place, so it wouldn't hurt to lose it later."

"Yeah, didn't see that one coming," Marshall muttered, fresh tears forming in his own eyes as he held her tightly. He was starting to feel like a wrung-out dishcloth at this point, partly wishing he'd just gone to bed early and never heard that stupid on the porch, but knowing in his heart of hearts that he wouldn't trade this night for all the riches, or sleep, in all the world.

"Mary, listen, this wasn't the way I had in mind for you to figure it out... I never wanted it to come on the heels of a traumatic event, as if it was just some kind of weird PTSD reaction, or something. But... but I guess you've kind of known for a while, so you know that tonight... tonight just drove me to admit it." Mary suddenly backed up out of his arms, looking just a bit perturbed, and slapped his shoulder with an open hand. "What?" Marshall asked, suddenly just a bit insecure.

"You haven't asked yet how I feel about you, dork," she said, a wry smile growing across her features. Marshall blinked. No, no he hadn't. He kind of guessed how she felt, by the way she'd flung herself into his arms at his own admission. But, he reminded himself, making assumptions about Mary's thoughts or feelings was always, always a huge mistake. Besides, obviously this question was important to her.

"All right, what about you, are you in love with me?" he asked, wording the question more or less as she had. He expected her to nod. He even expected her to say yes. He didn't expect her to turn in his arms and brush a light, entirely chaste kiss across his lips. He wanted so badly to turn the kiss into something R-rated, but he knew better than to jump the gun on that one. For one thing, it had been nightmares about sexual abuse that had driven her into his arms tonight. For another, just because they'd been partners, and he'd been in love with her, for years upon years, didn't mean that they could skip the process of dating and getting to know one another in the context of a whole new sort of partnership. These things can't be rushed, and really, he didn't want to rush them. He wanted to savor every step... mostly, anyway.

"Yes, Marshall, I have been in love with you for a very long time. So long that when I started to realize how much my past... my weird issues... screw up every relationship I've ever attempted... how badly all that could hurt you... well, anyway."

"Yeah, speaking of your issues, I think you should see somebody about the nightmares, and any other abuse issues that may come up."

"One reason that I came over here tonight to ask if you could maybe... help me... call Shelly in the morning," Mary replied. "Morning... Jesus. Marshall, it's two in the morning. Stan's going to kill us."

"No, he's not, I texted him a while back and told him we're taking a personal day. Told him you needed a little time to rehash events of the past. He probably assumes we're going over your abduction, or shooting, or something. And that brings me to the other thing. We'll call her in the morning, and put you on her schedule, Mary, but..." Marshall frowned in thought, the sentence harder to say aloud than he'd expected.

"But what, Marshall? What else do you want me to do for the nightmares? What else is there to do?" Marshall grinned at that. He could always count on her to walk right into it, when he had the perfect response waiting.

"Stay with me tonight," he said in that easy way he did when he'd walked his partner right into the perfect position for the next verbal barb. Only this time, it wasn't a barb. Mary looked up at him, just a little wide-eyed.

"I packed a bag, Marshall, but if you think I'm going to give up the goods before the first date, even, I'll shoot you where you sit." He chuckled at her reaction, as she seemed to rediscover the odd mix of sarcasm and honesty, that fit her so well.

"I look forward to the day when we're both ready to 'give up the goods,' Mary, but I have no intention of skipping over any part of the dating process just because we've been best friends for so long. I want you to stay with me tonight, because this crazy woman - who was incredibly hot, too, I might add - barged into my house and just dumped a whole lot of really painful, horrible secrets on me, that she should never have been stuck with in the first place. And after all that, I really need some downtime with my best friend." Mary slapped him again, at that, but he saw the twinkle of mirth come into her eyes at his words. "And," he continued, "I'd like to see if that keeps your nightmares at bay." Mary peered up at him, blinking, her mouth open just a little in that way she did, when somebody said something that brought crystal-clear realization to her. Marshall frowned slightly and waited for her to voice that realization.

"I need to think," Mary said, shaking her head at her partner, as she untangled herself and got off the sofa. "I'm going to get ready for bed." Marshall nodded and watched her go, before getting up and making his way to the master bath to do the same. While he was brushing his teeth, he felt a presence in the room, and glanced up to see her reflection in the mirror, standing in the doorway behind him. She didn't seem like she needed anything, so he let her stand there, while he continued his bedtime routine, slightly unsettled that she was just observing quietly, but it had been a long and difficult night.

"What?" he finally asked, when he was ready to emerge, but she was still blocking the bathroom doorway.

"You think Stan will have a problem if we're dating?" Mary asked, a contemplative frown on her face. That was totally unexpected. The pair made their way to bed as Marshall answered.

"Don't guess so." he said, crawling under the covers before pulling them back to help her in. "The only new thing is that we're being honest about our feelings... as much as we ever are. He saw this one coming for a long time."

"True... hell, Eleanor was hoping it was you and me engaged." Marshall chuckled as Mary reminded him of that day. It had been so incredibly painful to live through, and yet now? Now it was just one more step on the road that led him straight to Mary's heart. Now, laying in his bed gazing at the mop of blonde hair all over his pillows, he wouldn't trade that day, that moment in the journey, for anything.

"Come here, Mer," he muttered, reaching out to turn the bedside light off before he rolled over to wrap an arm around his friend. She obliged, turning to face away from him, but scooting her body closer, letting herself experience the safety of her partner's body protecting her. "You were thinking about something earlier, when I asked you to stay tonight. Did you want to share?" Mary yawned as she thought, trying to remember what it was. Oh... oh yeah. The nightmares.

"The nightmares got worse around the time Raph moved out. I let him stay over that one time since, because I wanted a full night's sleep... well, it didn't hurt that the sex was really good." Marshall nodded slowly at that. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear about it, but he'd figured she had let him back into her bed that night because she was afraid of... well, something.

"Why didn't things work out with him? Not that I'm disappointed to get a second opportunity to court you, but, I just wondered what went wrong. He seems really nice."

"He is nice, he's just not for me." She heaved a sigh before speaking again. "The truth?" Mary asked.

"That's usually your best bet, yeah," her partner replied. Mary moaned softly in frustration, as she seemed to collect her thoughts.

"I wanted him to change... it was like if you have two puzzle pieces that don't go together, but you hold them up and think, they kind of look nice together. So you decide to get out the scissors and make them fit. It just won't work, no matter how hard you try. It's... it's how I keep guys away, a way of controlling the situation, making sure they never get too close. If people are going to abandon me anyway... might as well be my fault, instead of me wondering forever, what I did wrong." If she could have come out with an answer that made him feel more insecure, Marshall couldn't think of it. She couldn't change him any more than he could change her, but now he wondered if Mary realized that.

"Are you afraid you might try to make me change, to be something I'm not?" he asked gently, making a point not to let his concerns show just yet.

"No," Mary answered, firmly, almost before the question was fully out of his mouth. "Absolutely not." Okay, this was good, at least.

"What makes you sure?" he asked, his tone still gentle, curious, exploring what was going on in her mind. He genuinely wondered how somebody who had such a history of sabotaging relationships, could be so secure in the knowledge that she wouldn't do it this time.

"I antagonized Raph every chance I got, partly because I never really wanted to be with him in the first place. Trying to change him at some fundamental level was probably just part of that. We weren't even dating. It was supposed to be just physical, until he went and asked me to freaking marry him. I still don't know why he asked me that. My whole relationship with him was... it was totally screwed-up in so many ways."

"Not really telling me how you know you won't try to change me," Marshall interjected, as soon as there was a lull in her nervous chatter. This was so unlike Mary... if it hadn't been such a serious topic, he really would be enjoying this odd, sleep-deprived mood. Mary glared at him, blowing out a terse sigh.

"I know I'll try to screw this up, somehow. I'm deeply fearful of that, because you're my best friend, and you're... well, you. I cannot imagine that you, after all these years, would pick now to give up on me, but even still, it scares the hell out of me. But trying to change you, that's the one thing I'm not really worried about... and you still want to know why. Damn it, you ask hard questions." Marshall nodded at his partner, taking in all her words, still waiting for the answer to his actual question. If he'd not been so insecure at that moment, he might not have been so caught off-guard by her answer when he finally did get it, might not have been so completely stunned that he simply stared and blinked. But, unfortunately, he was Marshall, quiet, confident, strong, but not above a good bit of self-doubt from time to time. So it did catch him entirely unaware when her answer came, leaving him clutching his partner's hands, fighting to catch his breath.

"Marshall, the reason I know I won't try to change who you are... I wanted so badly to change Raph was because I wanted him to be you."

* * *

Yeah, don't get too excited. It seems fast-moving now, but I'm planning to trot out the usual insecurities, struggles, and general mischief. I just wanted to wait until after we established the relationship, instead of before. Much as Marshall didn't want to confess his love for her on the heels of some traumatic event, that's really the only thing that shoves Mary far enough out of her comfort zone to let her guard down... even for him. They step away from their usual sarcastic selves here... I blame the late hour, and the beer. The fact that Mary does actually have a tender heart under the prickly exterior probably figures in, too.

I sincerely appreciate all of you who've read, reviewed, added me to favourites or alerts... it means a lot. Thank you so much. I'm glad you're enjoying it. It's probably going to be a little while before I update again. I need to hunt down my muse and beat her into submission before I'll be ready to go on. I have a good sense of my endgame, but I'm not real clear on the next few steps just yet, and I'm trying to avoid rummaging in my usual "crap, I'm out of plot devices" bag of tricks.


	4. And a Third Shoe?

Disclaimer: Still not mine... if I could create characters this amazing, I'd write my own show!

Warning: No particular new warnings, I just want to keep reminding folks we're dealing with child abuse in this story, juuuust in case somebody might forget that detail, and get caught off-guard or something.

Thanks so much for all your sweet reviews. It's wonderful to know others are enjoying this story as much as I am -- and to know my paragraphs aren't too painful to look at! Oh, and many thanks for all the reviews on my little one-shot, Attack of the Killer Stairwell... I just wanted to post it so that it couldn't torment me anymore, so the fact that y'all liked it is just that much more awesome. I'm still struggling with the ol' muse, but I wanted to pin down a little more of the story before I forgot to do this part. I am entirely unsure how to launch into Mary's insecurity, which is what I want to get into next, so I welcome advice on that. And if you want to beta for this story, let me know, because I've become attached to this story enough that I want it to rock, and therefore I'd love some consistent input and guidance.

Quick recap, we last left our favourite duo cuddled in Marshall's bed, having hashed out the whole abuse thing, admitted to being head over heels in love, and made plans to get Shelley the psychologist involved, and then Mary up and dropped yet another bomb on poor Marshall, who at this point is just about beside himself with wonder, excitement, and sheer exhaustion.

* * *

"Marshall, the reason I know I won't try to change who you are... I wanted so badly to change Raph was because I wanted him to be you."

"I... you... what?" Marshall reached behind him and flicked the bedside lamp on again, raising himself up on one elbow to peer at Mary. She wasn't sure if she should laugh, or roll her eyes in frustration that he hadn't figured that one out on his own yet. Annoyance won out, and she shot a look of disdain at him.

"I liked him because I wasn't emotionally invested. Less regret about breaking it off, that way. Turns out the downside to that one was that I really, really wanted a relationship I could be emotionally invested in... and it just wasn't."

"You wanted him to be me," Marshall repeated, confusion mingling with pure wonder in his frown, as he thought long and hard about this revelation.

"Is that not what I just said?" Mary asked herself.

"I'm just... wow." Mary rolled her eyes at his continued inability to construct a complete sentence, covering over amusement with annoyance, unwilling to let her feelings show, for reasons she still didn't really understand. "You know that's why I haven't been on more than a couple dates with the same woman the whole time we've worked together, right?" Marshall asked. Suddenly, it became Mary's turn to peer into her partner's eyes, brows knit together in utter confusion. Marshall smiled that easy, laid-back grin he had practically trademarked.

"Because... you..."

"Because they weren't you."

"God, Marshall, they were all meek and sweet and, and..." Marshall nodded at Mary's assessment.

"Yeah, the exact opposite of you. They were really nice, and it made for an interesting change, but... but they weren't you. I want you."

"Even with all my faults?" Mary asked, looking genuinely surprised now.

"Because of all your faults," Marshall corrected her. "Because every little piece, good and bad, all comes together to form the person I love." Mary found herself without words, simply staring open-mouthed at Marshall, who was still looming over her, leaning on his elbow. "So... can I kiss you?" he asked, after the pair had watched each other for a minute or so. Mary blinked.

"Are you going to ask for permission every time, because if you are, we're going to have to change that, at least." She expected Marshall to sling some verbal barb in return, but instead, he brushed her hair away from her face, as tenderness joined dead-seriousness in his gaze.

"Like I said earlier, Mer, being best friends doesn't mean I automatically know how you want to be treated by a dating partner. And tonight, I don't want to trigger any flashbacks or anything, not after you already had nightmares." Mary shifted her eyes uncomfortably at that. "What?" Marshall asked, wondering what he'd just missed. Mary turned onto her back so she could look more fully into his face.

"I didn't have nightmares tonight... I didn't even try to go to bed tonight, at home. They've just been so bad for the past week..." she explained, her voice trailing off to silence.

"Were you getting that weird feeling like after you got kidnapped, again?" Mary nodded in reply.

"Every time I even looked at my bed. I couldn't stand it any longer," came the reply. Marshall lay down again, yawning, and put the light back out. He wrapped his arms tightly around his best friend, still unable to really believe she was maybe, just maybe, his girlfriend now, too. And yet, he thought as his lips almost instinctively found hers in the dark, there certainly wasn't any other word to describe the woman who immediately latched onto his kiss, taking the lead so he would know how much she was comfortable with tonight. It was strange, he thought... kissing her caused his chest to tighten with a sense of love and protectiveness so strong, it literally hurt. Usually kisses affected him just a tad lower than that... but, well, this was Mary, unlike any woman he'd ever dated in his entire life. Why should kissing her be like anybody else, either?

"I'm glad you came to me," he whispered when they broke apart. Mary just nodded against him. He hadn't really expected her to say much in response. He knew her tendency toward isolation had to be screaming bloody murder by now, after all. But she was still laying in his arms, at least. As much as he knew she was afraid, that she wanted to run and hide, she hadn't given in to the fear yet tonight. It was a start.

"Tomorrow morning," Marshall began, thinking that it'd probably be more like afternoon when they woke up, "we'll get you some time with Shelley, and start to work out some of this stuff. But for tonight..." Marshall paused, sighing a couple times.

"Spit it out, Marshall," came the terse response in the dark. He smiled at that.

"This isn't going to be an easy road. We're going to both screw up at times... just because your story is particularly awful doesn't mean you're the only one with baggage to deal with. But I love you... I'm not just in love with you, I don't just have feelings for you, I mean love, the verb. I want the best for you, I want you to be happy, to forgive and be forgiven, to accept the struggles... I love you. No matter how painful things get as you deal with the past, and with the present, I want you to remember, to believe, that I love you, Mary Shannon, exactly as you are. And I always have." He felt more than heard Mary's shaky gasp at his words... knowing that it was a lot of deep stuff he was throwing at her at... at some ungodly hour. But he needed her to hear it, before she had the chance to recoil in fear, before the hard part of figuring out how to live day to day, before any of that came creeping back to torment them both.

"I've always felt loved by you, Marshall... that deep sort of unconditional love that I've been seeking for a very long time. And I know it doesn't show a lot, through the hard exterior, but... but I do love you, too, like you just defined it." Marshall nodded, rubbing his chin on the top of her head in the process.

"I know you feel.. well, I don't want to tell you how you feel, but I know you feel like your ability to communicate love often... gets lost in translation, shall we say. But know that the message is being received."

"You mean I wasn't throwing you off the scent all those times I called you numbnuts?" Mary said quietly, mostly-asleep. Marshall just chuckled at her, nuzzling her hairline with his nose as he held her close. Tomorrow, they would start to shine light on the shadowy corners of her soul, that others had so badly injured over the years. But for tonight, this was enough for the both of them.

* * *

Short, I know, but transitions kill me. There's a reason I specialize in powerful one-shots usually! Mary's probably going to try to bolt, soon... I would. I usually do if things get half as vulnerable as this, so she's got to be in a sheer panic by now, I figure. It's just taking a while to figure out how she would express those feelings, and how Marshall's going to react, if he's going to still remember to chase after her, even after exposing such a delicate part of his own heart.


	5. By the Light of Day

Disclaimer, warnings, and other notes: Still not mine. I did not take the time to check spelling on Shelley's name, against the credits on the show. I'll do that, and correct if it's wrong, later. We have a bonus **racy scene** (yeah that got your attention, didn't it?) today, which is getting up there, but the rating is still at T because it doesn't strike me as different from what I see on prime-time TV. Their, um, private time is not going to get much more explicit than it does in this chapter, though. This chapter didn't go exactly where I had in mind, but I like where it's headed, so I decided to let it live.

I'm going to be slow updating (or rather, about as slow as I have been the past couple posts) as my parents have need for me to stay with them off and on, and they live just east of Flipping Nowhere. Great if you like watching the goats while writing, not so great for googling, seeking inspiration, posting, and all that. And I've spell-checked and re-read this a dozen times, but I've also not slept since three days ago, so if there are too many errors, please somebody let me know! Thanks again to all of you wonderful people who've taken the time to review, favorite, put on alert, or even just read. Seeing you enjoy my story makes it all the more fun to write!

* * *

The first thing that registered in Marshall's mind when he woke up was sun, and lots of it.. far more than than the early riser should be seeing in late autumn. And cold... very cold, even though he'd already gotten out his flannel sheets and feather blanket, for the winter. Disoriented, he opened one eye, intending to ease into wakefulness as he tried to recall how he'd overslept so badly. But the day had no intention of allowing him to ease into it, he realized, as he took in the sight of his blankets, rolled up like a burrito next to him, silky blonde hair pooling from the end. Blech. He'd been hoping and praying that it had been some kind of weird dream, but the whole horrible, wonderful night came to mind as he processed what he was seeing. Mary, in his bed, with the comforter. Marshall chuckled almost silently to himself as scenes from the movie Clue sprang to mind. He reached out gently, trying to find the corner of the blanket, to figure out how to reclaim some of his blanket before he froze to death in his own bed, pulling gently with the hope that she would sleep through this. Mary moaned quietly and pulled against him, trying to keep sole custody of the blankets.

"Hey, come on, I'm freezing over here," Marshall said softly. Mary whined, but she loosened her grip, allowing Marshall to straighten the blankets to fit over both of them. "Thank you," he whispered, letting his head hit the pillow again. He needed to get up, to start breakfast, to help her call the psychologist, or maybe even make the call for her... in five minutes, he promised himself. Marshall breathed in and out, allowing himself to simply feel the cocoon of bedding around him, the firm but reassuring pressure of the mattress forming to his body and the warm weight of his blankets.

Once he felt ready to face the day, he pulled the blankets back, intent on getting up. His companion, however, apparently had other ideas. Mary's hands reached out from her side of the bed, fingers sliding along the waistband of his t-shirt before deftly slipping beneath to caress his chest. Marshall groaned at the sensation. There was that tightening a bit lower than the chest, he thought, remembering his odd reaction to last night's kisses. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to let her continue, but in one sobering instant, reality came crashing through, entirely spoiling his arousal. This was Mary, who had no problem at all with sex, but relationships, especially the sort that ideally should go with... well, that was a problem. He knew she'd probably panic and try to detach, after last night's brutal honesty, but he hadn't even thought of her using sex to detach from her emotions, had never realized that she viewed it as a tool to control others, and to control her own heart, until now.

Realizing that her hands were heading southward, he reached out and grabbed them, using them to pull her into a loose hug. Mary paused for a moment, then shifted her tactics to kissing and suckling at Marshall's neck. This woman was trying to kill him, he thought, momentarily lost to the sensation before rational thought returned to him. Now really wasn't the time to explain why he wasn't okay with doing this. Think, he chided his brain, as he tried to come up with a convincing reason to stop... not that his brain wanted to stop, any more than his body did, but Marshall was nothing if not committed to the idea that you always do what's right, whether or not you want to. Finally, something that his mother had told him years ago came back to him. That's it, that'll work, and it's even almost true.

"Mary, wait..." he finally said, not at all convincingly, but she paused anyway and peered up into his eyes. He could already see the sting of rejection in her eyes. Crap. Only Mary could figure out how to be so damn appealing, and so convinced that nobody was interested, all at the same time. "I have a rule, I don't get this intimate this quick in a relationship."

"We've been partners for years," she replied, returning to the task of devouring his shoulder.

"Yes, but.. oh geez that feels good... but not dating partners, Mer." Mary stopped again, backing up to look more fully at him, shock and confusion written all over her face.

"Seriously?" Marshall nodded, almost wincing at the thought. "Since when?"

"Since forever... my mom always told us growing up, we should wait for marriage," Marshall said, pausing for Mary to scoff at the notion, before he shot her a pointed look, and continued. "Or, at least we should take six months and honestly get to know the girl first. I don't know how I should even begin to apply a waiting period here, but Mary, every time I've ever broken that rule, I've regretted it terribly, and it's ended up hurting me, and the woman, very badly. I'm not willing to do that to you."

"You seriously wait six months?" Mary asked, apparently still hung up on that part. Marshall nodded. "I guess that's why you're not worried about the origami hurting your chances of getting laid. So what, do we get to hold hands and pretend we're in junior high?" Marshall wanted to give her a withering laugh, at the thought, but he knew that no matter how gently he put his foot down, that she would be hurt just a little bit by it.

"I'm fine with anything that we could do in public, and not get arrested."

"Then why did you stop me just now? I know it's pushing the limits, but you CAN do that and not get arrested... more, if we go to the wrong side of town." Marshall just stared at his companion. Seriously? Biting his lip to help keep his rational mind in control of his body, rather than the other way around, he pulled her more fully into his embrace, making certain she felt exactly how much he had enjoyed her presence already this morning before he stared directly, hauntingly, into her eyes. "Jesus, Marshall..." she muttered, glancing away with a sheepish smile as her face went pink. He allowed himself a second or two to take just a little pride in having provoked that reaction, before he became serious again.

"Because this is my last chance to put on the brakes before it's too late, and I'm serious, Mary, I can't hurt you like that. A long time ago, you told me it's my job to protect you, and if I'm going to do that job, I'm going to do it all the way." Mary secretly loved the emotions that flooded her heart at his words... safe, protected, loved. And for the barest instant she wished she could express all of that, instead of hiding behind her usual prickly, sarcastic exterior. But she couldn't do it, she realized, and really Marshall would have been freaked out if she could.

"Fine, but you need to figure out that six-month mark and put it on the calendar, so I can be prepared," she huffed. Okay, Marshall thought. Six months... that should be enough time to sort out not only his own issues, but Mary's, with the psychologist. He just hoped he could last that long.

* * *

Mary sat on the sofa in Marshall's living room, completely overwhelmed by the speed at which her life was changing. It hadn't even been 24 hours since she'd come over and confessed her nightmares to her partner... boyfriend... whatever. And she was already sitting face to face with the department-approved psychologist, explaining that her personal issues weren't causing a problem at work, and that Marshall had called Shelley because both partners wanted to keep it that way. Mary still wasn't exactly fond of this woman, especially given that she'd been out on a date with Marshall once upon a time, and even though she'd ended the date early to get back with her ex, it was evident that the woman was still just a little bit interested in Mary's man.

Mary almost gasped with shock as the words came into her brain. Her man? She'd never felt like she ought to lay claim to a dating partner before, ever... possibly because for the most part they were sexual partners, not dating material, but it was still awkward to her as she let the words roll around in her brain. _My man... my Mann._ Mary almost groaned at the level of geekiness her brain had just stooped to. Marshall would have been impressed if he'd been able to see that one, she thought, shoving it aside to deal with more annoying matters. Shelley had asked, finally, what these personal issues were that they were to deal with. Mary stared at the woman, sitting across from her on the sofa, then glared in annoyance at Marshall, who'd taken up residence in the recliner, forcing the women to share the couch in the first place.

Marshall, for his part, sat up just a little straighter, just a little more alert to the vibes his partner seemed to be shooting at him. Annoyance, yes, but there was a great deal of stress and insecurity along with. Marshall cleared his throat, interrupting Mary's quiet thinking.

"Do you want me to clear out of here?" he asked. He was strongly opposed to leaving Mary alone today, but he realized suddenly that that should be her choice, regardless of his preferences. Mary shook her head.

"This is going to sound really stupid, but..." Mary began, then faltered.

"If you think it sounds stupid, that's fine, but I'm just here to listen, Mary, not judge," Shelley said, encouraging her patient to go on.

"It's easy to tell Marshall," Mary said in a rush. Marshall's eyebrows shot up. Last night was easy? How the hell did this woman define difficult, then, he wondered briefly, before realizing that his partner was still talking. "Can you just observe while I tell him again?" Shelley smiled at Mary's request.

"Would it help if I stood behind you, so you can try to forget I'm here?"

"No, that's silly," Mary replied, as if there wasn't anything remotely silly about her plan in the first place. "I've just had practice doing it this way already, and I almost feel comfortable with it." Mary glanced at Marshall, then pointedly stared at the floor beside the couch, obviously hinting that he should move. He unfolded himself from the recliner and sat on the floor, nearly at eye level with his partner who, despite being by no means short, was quite petite compared to his tall frame. Marshall took her hands in his and took a deep breath, not sure he was ready to hear the story again, but committed to doing whatever she needed. It's what she would do for him, after all.

This time, he focused on watching Mary's eyes as she told her story, watching the fear and pain, and underneath those the anger, come into clear view. He hated to see that flashing rage in her, but in this case, he had to concede that it could be a good thing. It's when a woman isn't angry and offended, Marshall had learned, that you needed to really worry about things. Mary skillfully left out the latter parts of last night's chat, the bits about being afraid of losing her protector if he found out, merely mentioning that she did sometimes fear, however irrationally, that people would abandon her if they knew. When she was finished, Marshall sat still, holding her gaze for just a moment longer. He wanted to pull her into his lap and hold her, kissing the top of her head until all the bad parts of her past somehow evaporated. But he knew she wasn't comfortable with public displays of affection; even though she had once admitted to him that she often felt so disconnected from humanity, and so craved touch, that her skin actually ached. Which, once he thought of it, was probably related to her difficult past, but that was an issue to file away for later. He squeezed her hands before getting up off the floor and returning to the recliner. Mary turned her attention back to Shelley, who was bobbing her head slowly as she frowned in thought.

"I have to admit, I'm not exactly an expert in child sexual abuse," Shelley began, "but there are some strong parallels to the kinds of trauma that I do specialize in. And I understand that the secretive nature of your work limits your options. So I'm comfortable dealing with these issues. But Mary, I'm going to work you hard because I know you have high standards for yourself, but you are not going to like some of it You are not going to like me, most of the time. But you need to see it through."

"I didn't expect it to be easy," Mary muttered.

"Well, there's first day at the gym hard, and then there's Marine boot camp hard. I know you want the latter, but that's going to take a few months, and before you get halfway through you're going to want to quit. Don't." Mary nodded her agreement. "I'd also like to get a list of issues you're concerned about in specific, so I can be prepared, and we can make the most efficient use of your time. And if it's all right with you, I'd like to get a list from Marshall, too, since he knows you best. Do you feel comfortable splitting up for this part?" Mary nodded again. Marshall, without being asked, stood up and made his way toward the bedroom.

"Just let me know when you need me," he said as he left the room. Mary watched him go, partly because she was waiting to hear the door close before she started, but partly because she didn't really want him to go. But, Shelley had been right, she realized, as she briefly summarized her issues with trust, relationships, and love. This wasn't stuff she wanted to admit in front of her partner, even if he did already know. When they were finished, Mary traded places with Marshall, wondering what he would say, and if he would share that information later. The two seemed to be taking forever, which only served to increase Mary's nervousness, and a strange sense of jealousy began to creep up as she heard laughter now and then. She didn't honestly, rationally believe that a man who confessed to being hopelessly in love with her would be screwing around with her therapist the next afternoon. But, well... Raph had slept with his physical therapist after proposing, so she didn't exactly feel confident that the goings-on in the living room were completely innocent, either.

Marshall, for his part, had taken advantage of this opportunity to talk privately, to share his concerns about Mary's apparent use of intimacy as a tool to control, and to turn off her mental and emotional process, to disconnect rather than to connect. The two of them chuckled from time to time as they discussed the evidence Marshall had seen, in her relationships, to come to this conclusion, but underneath it all, he admitted his deep concern for his partner's emotional well-being. Shelley wrote this all down in her folder, which Marshall observed had been carefully labeled with false names and information, for added security.

"And how long have you two been dating?" Shelley asked, as the discussion wound down. Damn. Deer in the headlights, again. What was it with women sitting on this couch and proceeding to scare the hell out of him? Shelley laughed at his response. "You were hiding it well. I just kind of saw it coming from the day I met you both."

"Do you call it dating if the couple only admitted their feelings at two in the morning?" Marshall asked, uncertainty evident on his face.

"What, two o'clock **this** morning?" Shelley replied. Marshall nodded. "I'm pretty sure you call it insomnia." Marshall chuckled at that. Yes, this was part of why he'd liked this woman enough to go out with her the one time, he thought. But still, she was nothing like Mary. His Mary. That was going to take time to get used to, he mused, but he wouldn't have things any other way. As their conversation wound down, they got up and made their way to the foyer, and Marshall called Mary back down the hall from her hiding place. He noticed something was off about her immediately, but Shelley didn't seem to realize it, so he played it cool until the door closed, and Mary turned to face him, leaning against it.

"Don't ever do that again," she said in the same forceful tone she tended to use with witnesses.

"Let guests into my home?" he guessed, confused.

"Meet with her alone." Marshall simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate. "I'm sorry, but after Raph proposed to me and then slept with Fat Judy, and then you and Shelley went on a date that one time... I just can't take it. If you want to meet with her alone, go sit out back, so I can see, at least."

Marshall smiled sadly at his best friend, still leaning against the door. It had hurt, to be told that she didn't trust him alone with another woman, but Mary did have a point. She'd been badly hurt in her last relationship, and Marshall had had enough of a passing interest in Shelley to have dinner with her once. This distrust was painful, but not entirely unreasonable. And she'd actually told him what was wrong, instead of stewing about it until she exploded. He nodded in acceptance of her request.

"No problem Just tell me what you need." To anyone else, his statement made no sense. Mary had already told him what she needed, after all. But she understood the unspoken message of reassurance. Just tell him, because asking implied that he could say yes or no; she needed only to itemize and he would make sure it got done, no matter what. And she heard the encouragement to tell him what she needed, right now, to soothe her fearful heart. She pondered that for just a moment.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into what we almost did this morning..?" she asked, getting a smile and a shake of the head from Marshall. "Yeah, didn't think so. I think I need to go home, Marshall. I need a shower, and I only packed clothes for one night." Marshall's stomach seemed to drop straight through the floor at her words. He hadn't counted on her deciding to leave. She didn't live with him, he knew, but... leave? When she was so liable to run away? He didn't like it, not one bit. But, it was what she needed, so she would get it. He nodded his agreement.

"I'll go get your suitcase," he muttered, already partway down the hall.

"Leave it," she said, stopping him in his tracks. He turned to meet his partner's eyes. "I'm just going to bring more clothes back with me anyway, after my shower. Might as well leave the dirty stuff here too, so it'll get washed." Marshall had tried to play it cool, but he couldn't stop the goofy grin from spreading across his face at her words. More clothes... after her shower. He had no idea how long she was staying, but right now, he didn't care. She wasn't running, not yet, and that's all that mattered at the moment. Marshall leaned over to kiss the love of his life before shooing her out the door, so she'd get back all the sooner.

"And you'd better have dinner ready when I get back!" she groused, an equally-goofy smile spoiling her attempt at a snarky tone as she strode to her car with more confidence than he'd seen in quite some time. So this is what Mary looked like in love, he mused, watching her go. It definitely suited her, he decided, before swinging the door shut and turning his attention to dinner preparations.

* * *

Aww, so she's coming back for a few days, at least. I've no idea how long she's going to stay... probably until Shelley pisses her off real good the first time or two. We'll have to see how that unfolds. Thanks for reading!


	6. What You Need

Disclaimer, warnings, and other stuff: Still not mine. Surprisingly, no particular warnings in this one, unless you've ever been as traumatized by strep throat as I have. I really, honestly, tried to write a good fight between the characters. And failed. Spectacularly. So we have the not-so-artful sidestep. Not what I had in mind at all, but we'll go with it, see how it plays... Lord knows Mary can always find a reason to pick a fight, if I get a better idea later.

* * *

Marshall knew it wasn't going to be easy, pursuing Mary's heart. He'd known from the day he'd met her, that her defenses were sturdy, tall, and covered with vines that were more thorn than vine. He knew, the day he realized he loved her, that his heart was doomed to a lifetime of cuts and bruises from rough handling, no matter how careful she tried to be. And yet, he thought, as he considered the most recent emotional injuries, he couldn't imagine ever wanting anything different. He'd tried to want something different, somebody else, anybody else... anything but this passionate woman whose extremes made fire and ice look like mere amateurs, who should have been off-limits by virtue of being a coworker in the first place. But the more he'd tried to guide his heart toward wiser choices, the more strongly it fought for the chance to pursue Mary. Even now, he didn't regret giving in to love.

He knew that things would get tense between them as Shelley began to shine lights in the dark corners of Mary's soul, and as the two women started mopping up the mess left behind by the slimeballs from the past. He hadn't expected it after their second session, though. He'd gotten up and out the door Monday morning, on time as usual, waving to Shelley as the two passed in their cars about a block from his house. Mary had planned to be about an hour late to work, but ended up coming in three hours late, with dark circles under her eyes from crying, and her stomach positively screaming for food. Marshall had dropped everything to give her a snack from his desk drawer before putting his jacket on to go buy lunch, but ended up sitting next to Mary in the women's restroom, holding her hair away from her face as her body staged a complete revolt. He'd asked if she wanted to share any of what she and Shelley had worked through, but she flatly refused. And when he'd asked how he could support her, she'd answered that she needed space, and to not be smothered.

Marshall knew he shouldn't do that, not like Mary wanted, but... but she had told him what she needed. And now here it was, nearly two weeks later. She'd stayed in his home a few days after that fateful Monday, but always keeping her distance, even at night. She slept so far away from him in the bed that he wondered how she didn't fall onto the floor every time she moved. She'd gotten more terse than usual, badgering more than one witness to tears before turning her anger on Stan on Thursday morning, flinging insults until he was screaming in her face just to cover over the fact that she'd nearly reduced him to tears in his own office. That was when she stormed out, and the two men hadn't really seen her since.

She'd emailed them both Thursday night, apologizing and telling them that she needed time to work through some issues with Shelley before she'd be able to cope with the close relationships that he and Stan were accustomed to having with her. And she'd taken to coming in at all hours of the night to do paperwork, so that days could be spent sleeping, visiting witnesses, and generally avoiding her coworkers. Marshall had begun to question whether confessing their mutual love had been a mistake after all. It seemed like it was destroying the partnership, and he knew the only reason Mary still had a job was that Stan had taken an entirely too fatherly role with her, patiently tolerating her as she not only committed what should have been professional suicide, but also ripped his heart to shreds, on more than one occasion over the years.

Even now, he'd tolerated a week and a half of her doing her job, however passionately, at odd hours, only seeing Stan and Marshall now and then, when she breezed through to change file folders, or in one case, to set up a new witness. Marshall had shared his concerns with Shelley on Monday, a week after Mary's initial breakdown. He'd thought of meeting her at his house, since Mary wasn't staying there at present, but if Mary ever found out... no. So they'd taken a long lunch and met in the office, under Stan's watchful eye. Shelley had had some strategies, some ideas for how to support their struggling friend, but it's really hard to show love and acceptance to somebody who won't even look you in the eye, and harder still to encourage independence in someone who's gone overboard isolating herself from everybody.

Marshall was fixing to launch into a second weekend without his Mary when he saw Shelley's email, letting him know that Mary had failed to show up for their Thursday appointment. His heart had dropped to the floor when he saw the email. He and Stan had also noticed her desk seemed untouched Friday morning, but they'd assumed it was normal... or at least, normal for right now. But missing an appointment with someone who had the power to revoke her badge and gun? Something was wrong, he sensed. Informing Stan of his concern, he grabbed his keys and left work an hour early, intent on carrying out his own brand of welfare check before he went home for the night. He'd cruised by her house, seeing her car in the driveway, lights on in the home, and what looked like Mary's figure through the open window, though, so he had decided to keep driving. Better to live and fight for her heart another day, than to get himself shot for smothering her.

But now, at 4 o'clock Monday morning, he deeply regretted that choice, as he rushed to pull clothes on, barely bothering to make himself marginally presentable before he ran out the door, carrying keys in one hand and boots in the other. He'd take the time to put them on later. He'd only been awake for twelve minutes when he backed his car out onto the road and turned it towards his beloved partner's house. He had woken up to a call from Mary's cell phone. He answered groggily, thinking it was her, but not sure if she was up to anything more friendly than "hello". It turned out to be a good move, he decided, when he discovered Jinx Shannon on the other end of the line.

"Something's wrong, you need to come take Mary to the hospital," she'd said. She didn't seem capable of assessing the situation or telling him anything more, just that something was wrong, so Marshall had practically hung up on her in order to keep both hands on the wheel as he pushed well above the criminal-speeding mark. Now, the past two weeks of distance felt so incredibly stupid, as he gunned it just a tad more to beat an early morning freight train. Images of Mary laying in the hospital, machines breathing for her, haunted him. Whatever was wrong, it had to be bad for her mother to call for help. He wondered briefly why she didn't just call 911, or take her daughter to the hospital herself, but the woman had never been known to make the most reasonable choices in life, so he didn't give that thought too much of his energy.

Marshall was still stumbling in a combination of grogginess and pure adrenaline, as he made his way to Mary's front door, barely noticing the way it echoed as he rammed his body into the surface almost before turning the knob. Surveying the scene, he found Mary lying on a sofa in front of the TV, medicines and tissues strewn on the nearby surfaces. So she had been sick for a few days, he thought. That must be why she'd ditched Thursday's appointment. He knelt quietly next to the couch, eyes widening in shock when he brushed hair from her forehead and felt like he was going to burn his hand.

"She's got a high fever," Marshall said. "What happened?" Jinx stood nearby, looking forlorn and uncertain.

"I don't know. She seemed upset, so I tried to stay out of her way, and then a few days ago she started taking over-the-counter painkillers kind of a lot, and sleeping any chance she got, and then Thursday and Friday she said she was sick, and going to just sleep it off, but... Marshall, she hasn't woken up since Saturday night." Marshall stared up at the woman, not sure if he wanted to hug her for calling him or kill her for waiting so long to sound the alarm. He chose to save any reaction for later, though, when he realized that Mary still wasn't awake.

"Mary?" he said, trying to gently shake her awake. "Mer? Come on, I know you're in there." After a few tries, though, he gave up. "She's not asleep, she's unconscious. How many painkillers was she taking?" Jinx shrugged.

"She asked me to buy some more on Wednesday night... it's this bottle, here," she answered, handing him a mostly-empty bottle. Marshall skimmed the instructions briefly to confirm his assumption that the maximum dose was three pills a day. There should be twelve, maybe fourteen pills missing at most by now. A quick count showed that eighteen were gone.

"Did you take any of these yourself? Did anybody visit who maybe asked for one, for a headache?" Jinx shook her head.

"No, I gave them to Mary and left her alone. I take aspirin, I don't need all that expensive new stuff."

Marshall had expected this answer, but it still felt like she'd punched him, when she spoke. Already, he was putting his boots on, asking if Mary was taking any other medicines, before scooping her unconscious form up and striding purposefully out to the car, promising to call Jinx the moment he knew anything. When they got to the hospital, Marshall discovered that apparently the trick to not spending seven hours in a waiting room chair was to be passed out when you come in. Or a U.S. Marshal, maybe. Or both. By the time he'd finished filling out paperwork and answering questions, Mary was already in a bed, IV line marring her strong but delicate hand as it carried desperately-needed fluids to her body, blankets laying loosely over her. It wasn't an overdose exactly, the nurse had explained, but it was a bit much, especially for somebody who was so dehydrated that they estimated she'd gone two or three days without any food or fluids. Two or three days. He knew exactly why she hadn't called him, but the question still hung over him like a raincloud.

Marshall heaved a sigh and settled into the chair by the bed, taking the opportunity to grasp her hand since he knew that, at least for a little while, she wasn't going to punch him. He must have been more tired than he realized, though, because the next thing he knew, he was resting face-first against the mattress by Mary's side, and she was moaning incoherently. Marshall was standing up, leaning over her in the span of a heartbeat, stroking long fingers through her hair.

"Tell me what you need," he whispered, praying that her answer wouldn't be to go away. He was certain he couldn't give her that. Mary opened her eyes, letting him see the depth of confusion and fear within them. "You're okay, Mer. You're sick, and your mom was worried, so she asked me to bring you to the hospital. Tell me what you need." Mary held her hand up, staring at the IV line in dismay before bringing her fingers into a pencil-holding position, and looking back up at her partner. Pen and paper. Okay. Marshall looked around the room and, seeing none, grabbed the whiteboard off the wall. He wiped off the information about which nurses were assigned to the room, before handing it over. Mary took the tool in shaky hands, painstakingly writing one single word for him to share with the hospital staff: strep. Marshall cringed at the word. Among all the horrors he'd ever experienced in life, the miserable pain of strep throat was one he could never forget. It easily scared him more than most anything else he'd ever faced in life. And here his treasured Mary had been enduring it for days, alone. He wasn't sure if he was more angry about her self-imposed isolation, or distraught at the thought of the pain she'd had to endure.

"Oh, Mary..." he muttered, disgusted with the whole situation. "Next time you need space, I'm going to check in on you anyway, just to be sure you're okay. We're not going to let this happen again." He had surprised himself with the firm statement of what was going to happen, without concern for her wishes, but he realized it was logical. The thing he always asked of her, after all, was what she needed, not what she thought she needed that would actually end up hurting her in the end. He wondered if that would come back to haunt him later, but brushed it off as the next couple hours needed to be spent on his partner's physical health.

He watched quietly as the doctor examined her, then ordered a narcotic painkiller. He'd laughed in spite of himself when the nurse injected the painkiller into her IV line, and Mary's face went from abject misery to a glazed-over look of relaxation, feeling the stress leave his own body as her pain eased. The doctor's treatment plan was a simple one: keep her in the emergency room until probably nightfall, giving her first two doses of antibiotics by IV, and keeping the painkillers coming as often as she needed. At home, the doctor explained to them both, she would need to keep up on both drugs, taking a stronger painkiller religiously for a couple days until her body had adequate time to heal, then switching to the usual Vicodin as needed after that. Marshall laughed at that. Of course Mary wouldn't need it. She practically had to be dying to take an aspirin. But the prescription would be in Marshall's wallet waiting, if she did decide she needed it. And above all, the doctor stressed, she was not to go home alone. Marshall sat quietly by her bed all day, watching over this woman he loved so completely.

"So..." Marshall began, as soon as they were in the car again. "Whose house do you want to go to?" Mary sat silently for a moment, absently brushing her fingers over the bandages where her IV had been.

"Yours," she whispered, still sounding in a lot of pain in spite of the drugs they'd given her. Marshall nodded his agreement.

"I know they said not to leave you alone, but I'm going to put you into bed and then go out to the pharmacy. Is that all right?" She nodded, her eyes already closed. Marshall breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she would be back where she belonged. His relaxation, however, was interrupted by a phone call. Stan. Uh-oh. Did he remember to call and take the day off?

"Hi, Stan," Marshall answered.

"Where the hell are you? And where's Mary?" came the angry reply. Nope. Didn't call in sick. Oops.

"I'm on my way back to my house, and she's right here with me, why? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong, I just lost two inspectors today and spent half the day driving around Albuquerque looking for them. Why the hell would you think anything's wrong? By the way, the lock on your front door is a pain in the ass to pick." Marshall closed his eyes momentarily. He deserved that reaction, but he knew how lucky he was to have a good, honorable man for a boss, and he hated letting his boss down.

"Stan, are you still at my house? Because I'm, like, a block away, and this will be a whole lot easier to explain in person."

"Yeah, all right." The line went dead, and Marshall realized the older man had hung up on him. That was a first, he thought. Usually it was he and Mary disconnecting when they were finished talking with their boss, not the other way around. He heaved a sigh, glancing over to see Mary asleep against the window. He felt terrible about frightening the man who so often risked his own job security to make sure that he and Mary had the tools and freedom to do the best job possible. They probably owed their boss a case of those ribs they'd gotten for Norman Baker, Marshall figured, for this little stunt. He made a mental note to place the order in the morning, as he turned into the driveway. Mary stirred at the change in sensation, but her partner put his hand out, resting it on her arm.

"Wait, let me carry you inside." If she wasn't fully awake before, she sure was now, he thought, as he took in the death glare she fixed on him, at the thought. "I screwed up. Instead of being there to keep you from stumbling, so to speak, I just let you fall on your face, thinking it was good enough to help you back up after the fact. I just spent two weeks giving you what you asked for instead of what I knew you needed. Now, you're very sick, and high as a kite, and Mary, no, I'm not doing that again. I'm giving you what you I know you need."

"What I need, or what you need?" Mary asked, cutting to the heart of the matter in those few words. Marshall wasn't really sure if there was a right answer to that question. She was likely to fall on the uneven stone path, honestly... but he did need to protect and provide, for his own purposes, as well.

"If it's what I need, can you give me that?" he asked in return. Damn, he was good at turning that right back around, she thought. The answers, any of them, really didn't matter... all that did matter was that the two partners re-established their habit of taking care of one another, before the angst devoured them alive. Mary nodded her response, bringing a smile to her partner's face. "That's my girl," he muttered as he came around to the passenger side and gently lifted her from the seat. Stan came around the corner from the porch just as Marshall turned towards the front walk with his delicate cargo.

"Oh my God, Marshall, what happened?" the older man asked tersely as he hurried towards the pair. He sounded positively furious, but Marshall recognized the worry bordering on panic, in his tone.

"It's all right, Stan, just help me get her to bed." That was all Marshall had to say, and Stan shifted gears instantly, from whatever investigative mode he'd been in all day to protective and fatherly, hurrying ahead of his inspectors, helping them into the house, then rushing ahead to pull the blankets back. Marshall almost laughed when he saw Stan heading for the guest bedroom. "Hold up, let's put her in my room. The doctor didn't want her left alone tonight." He was pretty sure the doctor had simply meant not to leave her home alone overnight, but Marshall preferred a more hands-on interpretation of the orders he'd been given. Marshall saw the flash of wonder that told him Stan might have just put all the pieces together, but he discarded that information as quickly as it had come to him. There were more important things to do right now. Working together, the men arranged Mary's weary body in the bed, still dressed in the pajamas she'd been wearing when Marshall had rushed her to the hospital before sunrise. He'd help her change into fresh clothes after Stan left, if she wanted. Stan ran his fingers over the hospital ID bracelet around the woman's wrist, and looked up at Marshall, waiting for an explanation.

"Apparently, she came down with a strep infection, and was trying to treat it with common grocery store painkillers," Marshall answered the unspoken question. "Her mother called me in the middle of the night, and asked me to take her to the hospital. They got her hydrated, and started IV antibiotics and painkillers, and I need to get to the store to fill some prescriptions. I need to watch her for a couple of days... she was unconscious when I found her, Stan. Breathing, but I... I keep seeing the blood, from when she got shot, just for a second."

"Pretty scary," Stan commented. Marshall nodded. It hadn't been a question, he knew. He'd known where the elder man's thoughts had gone when he saw the two in the driveway just a few minutes ago.

Mary watched her partner sink onto the side of the bed, letting his head fall into his arms. She'd known his heart had been badly scarred by her shooting, mostly because he'd been on a date instead of there with her when he'd known she needed him... when he'd known she needed him. Now it dawned on her why he was being so protective tonight. She had said she was fine, and even believed it was true, but Marshall had somehow known otherwise. He'd let her confidence, and his desire to go on a date, dictate his plans for the night, instead of listening to the quiet, but urgently nagging voice screaming at him that something wasn't right. Now he was afraid it would happen again, he'd make the wrong choice, listen to her wants instead of her needs, and... and it would all go to hell before he knew what hit him. Shelley had warned her that disconnecting too much from her partner would cause him to be overly paranoid in the future. At the time Mary had dismissed her words as exaggeration, but now... well, maybe she'd give Shelley more credence next time. Oh well, Mary thought, shifting position in search of a comfortable position. At least this sort of paranoia wasn't entirely unwelcome... much as it was awkward to her, she'd been looking for a long time for someone who cared enough to pursue her heart like Marshall seemed to be learning to do.

After a couple minutes, Marshall seemed to pull himself back together. He stood up and took the folded papers out of his pocket, flipping through them to find the prescription pages. He held them up when he found them, a wordless statement that somebody needed to go trade those papers in for the all-important pills that would help Mary's body recover from what she'd done to it over the past few days.

"I'll stay with her," Stan offered. "We can talk when you get back from the pharmacy." Mary grunted at that.

"I don't need a babysitter," she grumbled. Marshall shot her the dirtiest look he could muster.

"I just spent the whole day worried out of my mind, because you couldn't be bothered to get checked out when you knew you knew you were sick. And the doctor said, multiple times, that you are not to be left alone. I was okay leaving you alone when I didn't think I had a choice, but now it's different. You can pick who stays and who runs to the store, but Mary, you do need a caretaker right now." Mary glared around the room a bit. The painkillers sure had made her alert and feisty, Marshall observed. It was better than half-dead, yes, but just slightly more annoying as well.

"Marshall knows my drug allergies," she muttered as she rolled over. Marshall nodded, the decision made. While he gathered his wallet and keys, he watched Stan climb into the bed, sitting next to Mary as he took out his pocket knife to remove the hospital bracelet, gentle fingers smoothing the rumpled bandage on her hand in the process. He thought back to Stan's words after Mary had been shot, when she was trying to work a full shift the day she got out of the hospital. Stan had fought dirty that day, proclaiming his love for the woman, knowing that her aversion to emotionally-charged conversation would drive her from the building. But, Marshall mused as he drove, Stan had clearly meant everything he'd said. There was definitely a fatherly sort of love going on there. He wondered if Mary picked up on it, too... if that was why she constantly tried to push Stan's buttons, tried to get him to give up and abandon her like her own father had.

When Marshall came back home, he found Mary sitting up in bed, picking at some mashed potatoes while Stan sat beside her. He could hear talking as he came down the hall, but his presence seemed to interrupt the conversation, as he brought the sack of medications in. She wasn't due for anything yet, according to her discharge instructions, so he simply set the bottles down where they'd be easy to reach, before sitting on the side of the bed, his hip bumping against Mary's knee in the process. He laid one hand gently on her leg, not realizing how that would look to their boss until it was far too late to take it back.

"Feeling any better?"

"Better than being half-dead on my couch, yeah. The pain's a lot better, but the swelling is pretty bad. It's hard to eat." Marshall nodded at that. Stan picked that moment to clear his throat.

"So Marshall... Mary tells me you have a new girlfriend?" Crap. Okay, maybe it wasn't women, or the couch, that provoked the deer-in-headlights look. Maybe his whole house was just some kind of bad talisman or... something. Marshall stared, wide-eyed, utterly speechless as he glanced between his partner and his boss.

"She said what?" he managed to reply, after a minute.

"You can give up the innocent act, Marshall, he figured it out," Mary interrupted, still picking at the plate of starchy goodness.

"I just want to know if the problems the past two weeks have anything to do with your relationship," Stan continued. Both partners shook their heads.

"No," Mary answered. "I'm dealing with some personal issues from the past, and... and I didn't handle the last couple sessions with Shelley very well."

"Relating to the shooting, or the abduction?" Stan asked, getting another shake of the head in reply.

"Neither, and I don't want to talk about it. Not today, anyway." Stan nodded, obviously thinking deeply about the situation.

"Okay. But I need you to get your head back where it belongs, not in whatever crazy place you've been the past two weeks. I've been trying to let slide, because you're so good at what you do, but... we need you, Mary." Mary shifted uncomfortably. Stan knew she wasn't really good with expressions of emotion, and he knew she'd heard the underlying message of love and acceptance, no matter how much he tried to make his words be about the job. But he also knew that being needed was a driving force in her life, so he sought to tap into that, to help goad her out of whatever nightmares she'd been trapped in, and encourage her back to the present.

"I'll be back Thursday. The doctor wanted me off work until then." Stan nodded as he got up from the bed.

"All right, see you both on Thursday then. I'll see myself out." The two watched Stan leave, then listened for the front door, before moving. Marshall got up from his place and opened the top dresser drawer, grabbing some of his own pajamas to toss at Mary before stepping into the bathroom to get ready for bed. When he returned, Mary was laying down in the blankets, back to his side of the bed, evidently waiting to be cuddled up to.

"Did you take your pills?" he asked, getting a nod in response.

"So..." Mary began, then lay quietly while Marshall crawled into bed, wrapping an arm around her waist. "So I need to tell you everything that happened with Chuckles, when I was little... and I was wondering if we could maybe have Shelley over tomorrow night, and do that." Marshall heaved a sigh at that. He'd known it was coming, the day when one or both of them would decide the tale needed to be told. He just hadn't expected it so soon... she didn't even want to wait until her scheduled Thursday time.

"Is this why you were so out of sorts a couple weeks ago?" he asked gently, trying not to come across as accusatory. Mary nodded against him. "Then yeah, we need to get this done before it tears you apart any more." The room fell silent after that, and Marshall's mind began to drift into neutral, so prepared for sleep that he almost didn't register when Mary rolled over onto her back, and spoke up again.

"Are we still okay?"

"We're injured, and it's going to take a little time to heal, but we've already started that process. And I still love you, Mary. In all these years, you haven't been able to make me stop, and you haven't run me off. Might as well quit trying." Mary smiled in the dark. There was the trait that she loved and hated most about Marshall, the one that had first caught her attention when they'd met, the one she'd tried to fend off with biting personal attacks and fiery sarcasm... the trait that had intrigued her to the point that she'd decided to stick around instead of going back east after that very first pair of witnesses, so long ago. Marshall somehow always knew what was really going on in her heart, beyond the mask she tried to hide behind. She breathed a sigh of relief, letting her head tilt just a little more closely, feeling his tender kisses against her hairline. Tomorrow wasn't going to go well, she knew. But just for tonight, she could let the impending nightmare go away.

* * *

As usual, I've no idea where I'm going next. I've a good concept of where I want to end, but that's a year into the timeline from now, and I am NOT going to rehash all 365 days along the way. This came from the "crap I'm out of plot devices" bag, kind of because I needed to not blow all my good plot devices in the first few days of my timeline. I suspect I can only play the "I need to talk at you while rehashing every horrible thing I've been through" angle for so long before I need a new idea that will actually not suck, so I thought I'd try a tantrum-and-crisis on for size. Thanks for continuing to read!


	7. It's Not a Model T

All right, all right, an update, y'all happy now? (I am, anyway... or at least relieved to get on with the next part of the story!)

Disclaimer, rants, and everything else: Still not mine. Sad. Spoilers for, um... there's an outside chance I made sidelong reference to some season three episodes, but if so, it's going to be dialog that echoes the sentiment of some quotes from the episodes, which probably aren't spoilers at all, but fair warning just the same. We're free of most abuse-related angst this chapter; this is mostly transitional, and I wanted to torment Marshall just a teeny bit more. Special thanks to BuJyo for helping me clarify my perspective on Mary's personality, and encouraging me to find the nerve to write Sarcastic Mary, which is a part of her that I love, but find tough to write.

We last left our increasingly less sane duo at Marshall's, after Mary spent a few days ignoring a strep infection, and ended up in the ER unconscious, marginally overdosed on OTC painkillers, dehydrated, and in enough pain to warrant giving her the good stuff. Stan somehow guessed the pair are romantically involved, and let his fatherly side show more than he usually does. And Mary, in a fit of honesty borne of exhaustion and vulnerability (and the painkiller, I'm sure) admitted that she needed to tell Marshall more details about her past, tomorrow night (well, tonight now, at this point in the story).

* * *

Marshall could have done without the sunrise, he thought, as he puttered around the kitchen, cleaning imaginary dirt off whatever surfaces caught his attention. This day could have come twenty years from now, really... or a hundred, even, for all he cared. Oh, he would go through it, of course. He'd long ago committed to doing whatever needed to be done, for his job, and over time that professional sense of duty had grown to include his coworkers, and it was from that firm commitment that respect, friendship, affection, and yes, even love, had grown. But were he to be perfectly candid, as was his custom in the privacy of his own thoughts, he didn't want anything to do with this day. He hoped and prayed Mary would sleep through most of the day, just because he knew she would be the odd mix of surly and sullen that defines a frightened Mary. He'd even halfway thought of convincing her to take an extra painkiller, just to knock her out, but it would be far easier to just hit her upside the head, than to get her to take a pill, even if the instructions did say "one to two as needed". Her definition of "as needed" was more along the lines of "if you're pretty sure you'll die otherwise".

Which was why eight o'clock had found him not in the shower, or getting dressed, but in the kitchen, as far from the bedroom as he could get, with the radio tuned between stations to mask any sounds he might make during his odd, nervous-energy version of spring cleaning, or as he called Shelley to set up their evening appointment. And it would have worked, too, if she hadn't needed to take her antibiotic at ten. Marshall let his partner alone until eleven, letting the twelve-hour dosing slide just a little bit since he knew that most modern drugs are meant to be taken by real people, not obsessive-compulsive clock-watchers like himself. But, alas, the time came when he couldn't fudge it any longer. Mary had to be woken up. Marshall wanted to be excited at the prospect of rousing her sleeping body, but he knew she probably wasn't going to wake up relaxed, or cuddly, or anything like what he wanted for her. No, alertness would come swiftly, as she sorted out why she wasn't rushing off to work, and then fear and anxiety would set in, which she would express by trying to pick fights.

Marshall's job today, he knew, was to breathe deeply, and patiently wait the day out. She would allow him to comfort her in the evening; all he had to do was last the seven or so hours until Shelley's arrival. The woman had thankfully realized how important this was, as soon as Marshall had explained to her why her patient had vanished for a few days. But that didn't change the fact that her schedule was full for the day. Which was why Marshall had thanked her so profusely for being willing to come in the evening. Of course, he knew she would, if that's what Mary needed in these early weeks. She'd said as much to Mary, before, but it didn't change that he knew he was asking her to give up tonight's downtime at her own home, for Mary's sake. Marshall drew one more cleansing, deep breath before quietly opening the bedroom door and slinking into the room.

He closed the door as quietly as possible, not sure why he was closing it at all since it was just the two of them in the house... just to maintain a secure, cave-like feel, he supposed. He jumped just slightly when he turned around to face the bed, and instead of a sleeping woman, he met with fiery eyes, already a blend of rage and terror. Steeling his nerves for whatever Mary was about to dish, he approached the bed.

"How are you feeling?" Mary's eyes narrowed as she wordlessly pointed at her throat. Marshall allowed his blank look to melt into an expression of concern, and he stepped closer, intent on giving her the pills before he doubled back to the kitchen to fix a piece of toast, or whatever else she was willing to eat. But as he opened the bottle, Mary knocked it from his hand, sending seventeen antibiotic caplets skittering across the carpeted floor. Marshall frowned in more confusion than anger as he began to pick them up and put them back into the bottle. "Now, was that because your throat hurts too much to take pills," he asked, "or just because you're mad?" He glanced back to see her nodding. Both. Great. He knew she was miserable, but he found his own anger rising anyway. Marshall stayed on the floor, peering under his dresser far longer than he needed to, while he gathered his strength. Mary had been through far more than what she was subjecting him to, he kept reminding himself. He reminded his heart who was in charge here, reminded it that his brain had already chosen to live through whatever effects of the living hell his precious Mary had been forced to endure. When the anger had receded, he capped the bottle and stood up, making his way to his side of the bed. He rested his back against the headboard and pulled Mary into his arms before bothering to reason with her.

"You can take the painkiller first, or try just some water or juice, or even a bit of toast," he said. "It's your decision how you want to play this. But you've got to take the antibiotic." Mary's response was to growl in anger, smacking Marshall as she tried to punch the pillow next to him, flailing about as she allowed emotion to rule her for just a moment before feeling gave way to thinking, and her full weight fell against him as she nodded her agreement. She needed, and ultimately wanted, to take the antibiotic, she knew, and the painkiller would not only ease her suffering but take the edge off her nervous anger, too.

"Okay..." Marshall began. "Do you know what you want to try, can you point?" Mary did one better than that, reaching for her water glass. He felt her body tense as she sipped, feeling the pain course through his own body as he held her, trying to will the pain away. After a moment, though, she seemed to have a handle on the pain, as she passed the glass to him and leaned over to grab the bottle of painkillers. She took one out and stared at it for a while, before breaking it neatly on the score mark. Marshall cringed just slightly. Seriously? Half of a pill? But he didn't say anything. If she got half down, it'd at least take the edge off, so she'd be operating less on adrenaline, and he could try to reason with her. Right now, she was just operating on sheer avoidance of pain. Marshall's arms snaked more fully around Mary as she contemplated the half-pill in her hand for just a moment before washing it down.

When she did, Marshall discovered why she'd broken it in half. Immediately, her body tensed as it subjected her to a gagging cough – punishment for swallowing anything more substantial than water. She probably couldn't have gotten the whole thing down, Marshall realized. Mary lay against his chest for a while, and Marshall just let her do it. She needed to take the antibiotic and eat a little something, but for just a few minutes, she was at relative peace. If she was able to let herself receive comfort for just a little bit before her fears returned, and inevitably turned to anger, he would welcome it. Twenty or so minutes later, Marshall felt the drug hit her nervous system like a freight train, her muscles relaxing almost fully, over the course of just a minute. Tilting his head a little, he confirmed that she was still, in fact, awake... sort of.

"Are you ready to take anything else yet?" he asked softly, knowing that the heavy painkiller would make Mary more sensitive to sensory input. She nodded in response and handed the bottles over.

"I don't think I can open them," she whispered, coming as close as she probably ever would, to asking for help. Marshall took the bottles, opened them both, and gave her the pill and a half that he hoped she'd accept. It was such a little thing, but he felt like jumping for joy when she took both into her fingers. She stared at them for a while, turning them over and over in her fingers, before attempting to swallow one. Her body tried to rebel as she took each one, forcing her to rest in between, but Marshall sat quietly, stroking her hair and waiting patiently for her to do this at her own pace. He remembered, suddenly, being a young child, trying to psych himself up to take a particularly vile liquid medication. If he'd been left to his own devices, he would have spent ten or fifteen minutes on the internal debate, before eventually gulping it down, but his parents had never been exactly known for patience, and tended to give him one chance before throwing him on the floor and forcing it down, without really caring if it ended up in his stomach or lungs. Marshall had always sworn he would never rush a person about things like this, ever. Kids aren't stupid, after all... they just need to approach unpleasant things on their own terms sometimes. Waiting for Mary to get on with it had tried his patience, probably much like the irritation his own parents had felt with him. He'd wanted her to hurry up and not torture herself for so long. But she, too, needed to approach this independently, on her own terms.

After laying quietly for a little bit, Mary began to pull herself up away from Marshall. He wasn't big on having to let her go, but he valued life and limb, so he immediately turned loose. There was going to be a next time, after all, for the rest of his life. No sense smothering the poor thing from the start.

"Do you want to go sit in front of the TV, and I'll fix breakfast?" he asked, getting a shake of the head in response. He thought she might have answered verbally, but he wasn't entirely sure until he watched her pause to pull some of his pajamas out of the dresser, then stumble into the bathroom. The shower started almost as fast as the door closed. He should have realized she was going to want a shower, he figured, since she probably hadn't felt up to it for a couple days. Marshall thought to make breakfast and have it waiting when she was ready, but he thought better of it when he remembered how strong a painkiller she was on. If he weren't trying so hard to give her space and let her be independent, he would have gone to sit with her, just to keep a closer watch. Instead, he took a book off the nightstand and leaned uneasily against the headboard, half reading, half listening for any sign of distress from the next room.

Marshall's ears perked up when he began to hear a new sound coming from the bathroom. It didn't sound like distress, so he listened intently. Huh. Who would've thought... big, bad Mary Shannon sang in the shower... softly, but it was definitely singing, some light and airy song that he was sure he'd heard somewhere before, but he wasn't sure quite where. It reminded him of the kind of song he'd hear in his grandparents' church when he was young, but... Mary? Religious songs? Highly unlikely. Marshall smiled and made a mental note to ask her later, what it was. The smile quickly came off his face when he heard a crash, then another, followed by a moan. All thoughts of reading gone, he threw his book aside and scrambled to the door.

"Mary! Are you all right?" he asked, lurching to a stop at the door, his hand on the knob just in case. Another moan. He opened the door just a crack, to hear better. He wanted to charge in, but waited just a moment longer, and was rewarded for his patience.

"Yeah... I just.. I'm okay. I just fell a little bit, and dropped the shampoo."

"Do you need any help?"

"Like I'd let you in here while I'm in the shower," she shot back. Marshall was taken slightly aback at that. On at least two occasions Mary had tried to make him give up his six-month rule, and yet she didn't want him to see her in the shower? Was he supposed to be hurt by that, or what, he wondered. "You'd never be able to keep your six-month rule if you came in here, Marshall." Ah. Well, that did explain it, then. Mary was trying to abide by his wishes... she just couldn't figure out how to do it without a touch of sarcasm. Marshall chuckled.

"I would find the will to restrain myself, if you needed assistance. But if you're sure you're all right..."

"I am." Convinced that she was all right, he let the door slide back closed, and returned to his perch on the bed. Mary, hearing the sound of the door closing, stuck her head out of the shower, looking around in confusion. She was sure she'd heard... did he come in before asking if she was all right? No, Marshall would respect that boundary... wouldn't he? Well, he wasn't in the bathroom now, so apparently he had respected it, at least to a degree. And she'd not seen his shadow against the shower curtain. He'd probably just glanced around to be sure he didn't see blood or anything obvious, she finally decided, as she returned to her cleansing rituals. Showers were like some kind of religious experience, Mary had long ago decided. She'd never been real big into religion, despite having been born and even marginally raised as a Catholic, despite the medal that she wore about the neck, well, religiously. But showers... there was something about the warm water flowing, its power to wash away dirt, grime, blood... stress, fear, anger, pain. It was magical.

That was probably why she always felt compelled to sing the couple of old hymns she remembered from childhood, whenever she stood under the wondrous, almost too hot rain. She knew she would have to emerge from her refuge soon. She was starting to get hungry, the second half of her painkiller was starting to work its sleep-inducing magic, and Marshall's water heater was set not nearly high enough for her liking. She pictured it right at the 120 mark that's decreed safe. Marshall would follow those kinds of recommendations to the letter. Mary's own heater was set a good twenty degrees above that, a departure from her preference for following the letter of the law that she allowed, partly because she didn't have to worry about kids scalding themselves at her house, but mostly because if she was going to pay the bills, and put up with her freeloading relatives, then damn it, she was going to have a hot shower that lasted a full 60 minutes.

She made a mental note to go find his water heater, later, and turn up the thermostat. Mary started putting bottles back, closing the caps, wringing out her washcloth in preparation to get out, and somehow managed to drop one bottle in such a way that everything else tipped all at once. Hmm. Maybe she'd wait till she wasn't on such heavy medications, to tinker with hazardous household appliances, she thought as she began picking things up. As soon as she bent over, she heard it again, that sound of the door, and Marshall's deceptively calm voice asking if she needed help. This time she was going to catch him in the act, she decided, leaving the bottles on the shower floor and sticking her head out around the curtain to find... nothing. The door was open maybe an inch, no more.

"Marshall, are you opening the bathroom door?" she asked, thus verifying that she was all right.

"No... well, sort of..." he answered. "It makes it easier to hear you if I crack the door open, is all." Mary snickered in response.

"I'm fine, just a drug-induced clumsy moment," she said. "Quit letting all my steam out, already." She was rewarded with the sound of the door slipping back closed. Once Mary was sure she was alone in the room, she set to getting herself out of the shower, taking more care this time, as she dried off and stepped into Marshall's pajamas in the small, humid space before hanging her towel neatly and emerging. Marshall glanced up at her from his place on the bed, holding a book as if he'd actually been reading the whole time. Of course she knew he'd been doing nothing but worrying about her, but at least he was trying to play it casual. That was nice of him.

"So what's for breakfast?" Mary asked, trying for at least a little disdain in her tone, but utterly failing since her appetite had finally returned about halfway through her shower. Marshall regarded her carefully as he considered how to answer.

"Depends," Marshall finally answered. "Do you feel up to eggs and pancakes, or should I just make some toast?" Mary lit up at the idea of a real breakfast... this was Marshall, seriously? The king of the continental breakfast buffet, offering pancakes? He suppressed his grin, knowing that even if she picked toast, he'd won some serious points for remembering how much Mary loved a good, hearty breakfast. "So, pancakes and eggs?" he asked.

"Maybe just the pancakes," Mary answered, putting her hand to her stomach. "I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle eggs yet." Marshall smiled gently and nodded.

"Pancakes for the lady," he said, as he got up and made his way down the hall, hearing her begin to follow him. "You should lie down before that painkiller knocks you on your ass," he said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.

"What did you think the racket in the bathroom was?" Mary asked, her characteristic eyeroll proclaiming her annoyance.

"Terrifying," Marshall muttered under his breath as he began taking the needed ingredients out of the cabinet. That made Mary blink. She'd never been a lip-reader, but that word had come across loud and clear. Terrifying. Huh. She had no idea Marshall worried that much over her. She wondered, as she made her way to the sofa, if that was a new thing, or if he'd always been overprotective and she'd just now begun to notice. Either way, she thought, turning on the TV. Almost instinctively, she found a movie on that Marshall would inevitably hate. She wasn't even sure what it was, but it was 18 minutes into it and already there was a nice, loud car chase... just what she felt like zoning out in front of today. A few minutes later, Marshall joined her in the living room, standing by the end of the sofa.

"Pancakes are cooking. Water, milk, or cranberry juice?"

"Ew, gross!" Mary almost shouted, wearing a disgusted expression. "I'll take cranberry juice!" Marshall almost laughed at her reaction... for reasons he'd never really understood, the woman wasn't big on water or milk, especially first thing in the morning. But somehow, she'd managed to develop an affinity for the tart, almost bitter cranberry juice that he'd grown up on. He nodded his understanding and turned back to the kitchen.

"Oh," Marshall said, turning his head toward Mary just enough to be heard. "Nice pajamas." Mary immediately glanced down, entirely unsure what she was even wearing. Oh yeah. His flannel pajama set, the one with the antique cars all over. She'd never seen him wear the shirt, and didn't even know it existed until she pulled what she thought were the pants out of his drawer, intending to grab a plain pajama shirt, but then found herself still looking at the pants neatly folded beneath what had turned out to be a matching shirt. It looked so cuddly and warm to her that she'd taken the whole set with her.

"Where do you get Model T pajamas, anyway?" she asked. "Some adult-sized baby catalog?" She'd meant to suggest a company that carried nostalgic products for those people who, for reasons Mary would never understand, felt the need to relive their childhood through overpriced reproductions of goofy items they'd had growing up, but when Marshall's head popped around the corner of the kitchen, eyebrows nearly touching due to how intently he was frowning, she realized her words had unintentionally suggested something substantially less appropriate. "That didn't come out right," she said, frowning and shaking her own head.

"Not so much, no," Marshall answered, a teasing grin replacing his earlier shock. "I got them at the mall, and they're not Model T, though that is what the manufacturer's labeling said they were. The manager took five percent off for the error." Mary rolled her eyes. Leave it to Marshall to complain to some poor store manager making fifty cents above minimum wage, about some overseas manufacturer not knowing what they were selling. "That's a 1933 Chverolet Eagle," Marshall continued. "The Chevrolet had dual sidemount spare tires, whereas the Model T didn't even come with a spare, early on. Also the Chevrolet had substantially different specs, such as two more cylinders and about 40 more horsepower, though that's not evident from a photo." Mary glanced up toward the kitchen, annoyed expression firmly in place, but annoyance gave way to a grin when she saw Marshall wasn't looking. Somewhere along the way she'd learned to love his constant inane trivia, though she'd never let him discover that secret.

"Well, whatever, they're nice pajamas," she replied. A few moments later, Marshall returned, plate and glass in hand, pancakes steaming and buttered the way she liked them. Huh. She'd never know he was paying enough attention to know how she liked her flapjacks, and yet there they stood, topped just so. Mary took the items, muttering her thanks as she settled more upright on the couch.

"They look better on you," Marshall commented, handing her breakfast to her before disappearing back into the kitchen to prepare his own food. Mary froze at that, blinking. She supposed after the whole emotional love-fest that had gone on a couple weeks back, that she shouldn't have been caught off-guard by his pronouncement. Nor, she thought, should she feel awkward about it. But there was just something weird to her, about a guy liking the way she looked... ever, really. It had caught her completely by surprise when Bobby D had called her hot, too, a couple years back... and when Marshall himself had had trouble looking at her in the low-cut dress her sister had loaned to her once. But... pajamas? Long flannel pajamas? Long, flannel, ill-fitting, Marshall-sized pajamas? Did she really look good in that? _Could_ she look good in it? And did she even want to look good enough for a guy, even Marshall, to notice her looking good in long, flannel, ill-fitting, Marshall-sized pajamas? Mary was entirely unsure about this... and yet, something about it felt really, really good, she mused, as she started working on her breakfast. Marshall had presented her with too much food, but it tasted amazing and she was determined to eat every bite, even if it took all day. Which it just might.

After a pancake and a half, Mary set her plate aside, shaking her head when Marshall asked if she was finished eating. "I'll finish it, geez, it's just going to take a while. I hadn't eaten in almost four days when Stan made me those potatoes last night; I'm not going to just rebound from that all at once, like some kind of magic act!" Marshall raised one eyebrow slightly. He'd been expecting her to flip out sooner or later, though he'd hoped it wouldn't come. That was irrational, of course, but he'd hoped just the same.

"What's bothering you?" he asked, bracing himself for the answer. Mary glared his direction, then stared back at the TV as she heaved a sigh, obviously thinking up an answer.

"What's wrong with me is you're mothering me to death, with the pills, and the nagging, and, and standing by the bathroom door! I can't even take a shower alone, what, do I have to lock the door? I don't even have control over my life, you just carry me to the damn hospital, and then cart me around right in front of my boss, and, do you have any idea how embarr... I mean, Jesus, Marshall, what are you... I don't even know what time this damn appointment is, and you and Shelley both are going to expect me to just tell my whole damn life story on command like a damn trained seal!" Mary's rage had seemed to fizzle out of her in the last line or two, as her brain started to get more flustered, probably an effect of the painkillers she was on. Marshall raised an eyebrow again as she slumped back against the sofa, watching as the fight, if not the anger, seemed to be slipping away.

"That all you got?" he asked, almost surprised by the short duration of her rage. Mary yawned in response.

"Damn painkiller with its damn drowsiness..." she muttered. Marshall smothered a laugh, wondering how many times she was going to work "damn" into her quickly-subsiding anger.

"Lay down, Mary... sleep. There will be time for righteous anger later. Shelley's coming here straight from work. She said she'd probably be here around six," he answered, supplying at least a little bit of the information she needed to feel like she had a handle on her life. It must have been scaring her half to death, he realized, for other people to be in control of so much, the past couple days. The medications had been covering over that terror, but that didn't make any of it go away. It had just been easier to deal with, than an un-drugged, healthy Mary would have been, a fact which he appreciated, even as it made him feel like a selfish coward for not wanting to endure the full force of his treasured partner's seething rage, even more so because she had every right to be enraged at the hand she'd been dealt in life.

Marshall almost tried to goad Mary into anger, just to soothe his own sense of selfishness for being glad that she'd worn out so quickly, but then he suddenly realized Mary was moving again. He watched as she tilted toward him, letting her weight fall onto her palms as she crawled across the couch until she had stretched out. She lowered herself gently down, her head resting on his leg, apparently taking his advice to give in to the drowsiness for now. Marshall's heart melted at the gesture of trust. Maybe he'd been wrong to feel selfish... maybe Mary did need to calm down, to rest and relax, to have fewer chances to break his resolve to endure her uncontrolled emotions. Besides... there was something adorable about the mop of hair all over his lap, the fingertips barely visible in the too-big pajamas, toes entirely hidden. Marshall pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and over his partner's body, smiling as she grunted softly and pulled it up around her chin. He was certain she'd wake up just as angry as she'd fallen asleep, but her injured heart and body both needed the rest. Marshall grinned as Mary's breathing took on a light, almost feminine snore, asleep already. He took the opportunity to brush his fingers through her damp hair – and to change from this absurd car-chase movie to his preferred History Channel.

* * *

Okay, I'd meant to get on to Shelley's visit this chapter, but Mary just had more and more ideas for chewing up space, and then I realized this is my longest chapter yet, according to my word processor's page count at least. So we're going to break here, and then get on to her visit next. I'll try to get the next chapter done faster, but... well. The good news is I have some VERY clear ideas about what will happen next. Bad news, family drama and a fickle muse both conspire against me this coming weekend. Thanks for your patience.

Am I getting any better at writing Angry Mary, though? I've been practicing, but I think the skill isn't quite there yet. Oh, bit of trivia – Marshall's pajamas may or may not exist, but I got the idea when I was in the garage earlier, and I tripped over the bumper of the mostly-restored 1933 Chevrolet Eagle that my parents ditched at my house a few years ago. Many people mistake it for the Ford Model T, which is quite a bit older, and the 33 has "Chevrolet" boldly written in a couple places, while Henry Ford built, you know, Ford branded cars. And, well, I'm dangerously close to slipping into Marshall-mode, but trust me, there are numerous reasons that people's assumption that ancient car = Model T is hilarious. Which is how Marshall ended up with said pj's.


End file.
